The Maiden
by thesketchytepe
Summary: Crippled and hopeless, Francis Bonnefoy believes there is no hope for the kingdom of France during the Hundred Years War against England. But when a young maiden steps out of nowhere and claims she is to bring peace to the land, everything changes in ways he'd never expect. Switching between Francis and Joan's POV, we follow in the maiden's footsteps and remember her legacy.
1. Prologue: Warrior

****Because I had so much fun with France's character while writing "Memories of Ghosts", I've decided to write another fic with him as the main character. He's so fluid and charming and strange and ****_real. _****I love it ****?**

**Joan of Arc has been my favorite historical figure since I was a wee lamb and so naturally I fell victim to the epically painful ship that is France X Joan of Arc when that Hetalia episode first aired. You know, ****_that_**** one. I wrote one of these before but it's utter trash and I needed to make a new one after deciding to get a degree in history some time ago and therefore know my shit a little better. (But I love information I don't know so please feel free to correct or add anything you might know about Joan or the war or French politics during that time.) **

**I recommend listening to Aurora's "Warrior" for you to get into the spirit of this fic—I think it perfectly describes Joan and her great mission to save France! So yeah, here we go again!**

**P.S. Welcome to the Hetalia fandom, ladiestark (hopefully you won't come to regret it as some of us do)! This one's for you ****?****** **

"Jeanette!"[1]

Her head whipped toward her father's voice behind her. She peered out the open front door and into the lush green field beyond, spotting a crouching figure with a small beige cap on. She then turned to her mother who was sitting in a rocking chair nearby, sewing up a new linen shirt for her father.

"Father is calling for me," she said.

"I know," her mother sighed. "Go and see what he wants but do tell him that the house isn't going to clean itself."

With that, Jeanne leaned the broom she had been holding against the wall and then hurried out the door.

As her bare feet pounded against the prickly grass and the warm summer breeze gently pushed through her long, dark hair, she noticed her three older brothers—Jean, Pierre, and Jacques—working with their father. Well, they were _supposed _to be, anyway. Jacques was testing his strength by seeing how many cabbages he could carry at once while Pierre and Jean, bored with their chores, were battling one another with long, narrow sticks.

She skidded to a stop in front of her father; he was busy milking his favorite cow Gillette.

"Good morning, Gillette," she greeted, running her hand down the animal's neck.

Gillette closed her eyes in contentment.

Jeanne heard her father say "See? I told you she'd come." She looked down at him and saw the little wooden bucket he was holding up to her.

"Could you go fetch some water from the creek? Gillette is so hot, she's licking the grass."

As if to prove his point, the cow bowed her head and Jeanne watched her pink tongue vainly lap at the dry ground.

"Ah! Poor creature!" She took the bucket and petted her neck again. "I'll be quick—"

Her sentence was cut off by something small roughly poking into her side. She glared at the perpetrator who happened to be Pierre with his makeshift sword.

"Pierre!" she whined as he laughed, her reaction fueling his annoying older brother tendencies. She swung the bucket at him and missed him by a few inches, but it was close enough to cause him to stumble back and lose his footing.

"And the brave noble knight falls at the feet of the great and horrifying warrior!" Jean announced a few meters away, swinging his own stick around in wide arcs.

"Jean!"

"Alright, calm down, all of you," their father grumbled. "Jeanne, go get that water and Jean, go help your brother with all those cabbages."

Jeanne faced her father with a raised chin. "Mother told me to tell you that the house isn't going to clean itself."

"Wonderful idea! Pierre, go take your sister's place inside the house."

Pierre sighed heavily and turned to glower at Jeanne, but she was already on her way, running into the crowded wood before her giggles could burst from her throat.

Birds chirped pleasantly overhead, squirrels scurried up trees, and rabbits peeked out of their burrows as Jeanne strolled between the mighty pine trees. She admired the bright sunlight slipping through the pine's cracks and the occasional white mushrooms peeking from behind tree roots and little shrubs. Even though the strong August humidity was settling on her skin, beads of sweat glistening around her hairline, she enjoyed the calm silence, the beautiful scenery, and the simple life that she was leading thus far.

Once she came upon the running creek, she kneeled down and dragged her bucket through the warm water. The bucket instantly became heavier, so she held onto it tightly with both hands, slowly turning around and lumbering back from whence she came. But the rustling noise behind her caught her attention and she stopped to peek over her shoulder.

Nothing in particular stood out; only a few bushes and the running creek filled her vision. She shrugged to herself and continued on her way, but then the noise disturbed her concentration once more.

She looked behind yet again, but still there was nothing to be found. Frowning, she peered at one of the bushes suspiciously, but was startled when the same noise now erupted from the other side.

Gasping, she spun around, some of the creek water spilling from her bucket. Her heart sped up at the vacantness before her. What was making that sound? Was it some animal? Whatever it was, it circled around her pretty fast.

She hesitantly took a step backward but couldn't resist the temptation of looking behind her again. That's when she saw it, the thing that was circling her.

But she didn't know what she was seeing. It was so bright, brighter than the sun. Its head resembled a ring and its glowing figure nearly blinded her, being so close to her. She couldn't make much of it—a star? A sudden fire? Was it the sun?—but then it spoke in a low and booming voice like the thunder before the storm:

"Do not fear."

Yet that's exactly what she did. Her fingers lost their grip on the bucket and it came crashing down to the forest floor, giving drink to the withered grass beneath her. She let out a shriek and twirled around and began sprinting away. She inhaled sharply and screamed, "The English! The English are here—"

The wind was knocked out of her as her foot got caught in a tree root and she fell flat on her stomach. Panicking, she sat up and tried crawling away; the bright light behind her said again in its deep voice, "Do not fear, Jeanne d'Arc, child of God."

How does it know her name? Her head twisted back toward the thing, and her fear somewhat subsided. She could now see it a little more clearly as it slowly made its way toward her. The bright ring still hovered above its head, but she could now make out the torso, arms, and legs of a man. Armor and fine silk adorned its person and a longsword was sheathed by its side. She saw the outline of exceptionally large wings behind the figure which were waving slightly, creating that same rustling noise she heard earlier. It also had hair, long and golden, but she couldn't distinguish its facial features—its aura was much too bright for her to see, yet she somehow knew that this mysterious being was extraordinarily beautiful. In fact, she was so taken aback by its beauty that tears sprung in the corners of her eyes.

"Who-Who are you?" she asked it in both fear and awe.

The shining figure stood above her, its face looking down at her. "I am called Michael, a messenger of God."[2]

Her heart nearly burst from her chest at its response, _his _response. She got on her knees before him and clasped her hands together. "Saint Michael the Archangel!" she cried. "Forgive me! I ran from you when you told me not to. I feel so corrupted in your holy presence; I do not deserve to be in it."

"God has deemed you, young maiden, worthy of much greater responsibilities. I am here to bestow those responsibilities unto you."

The angel's voice, though deep, was very calm and soothing like a soft wind brushing through a field of wheat or water trickling down a barren of rock and stone. Jeanne found peace settling within herself once again while honor and determination filled her lungs, encouraging her to speak through them:

"If God requires me to carry more tasks in my daily life or to change it all completely, then let me do it in the way He commands me to."

"For now, live your life as you have been," advised the archangel. "Go to mass, obey your parents, listen to the words of the Lord. Follow these orders for they come from the Lord our God."

She nodded her head as fast as she could. "Yes, of course. I will do all that He commands of me."

"Good. Stay strong, Jeanne d'Arc."

As he lifted his face to the treetops, his marvelous wings began fluttering with more speed and more strength. Jeanne's hair and clothes rippled furiously at its affect as if she were in the middle of a powerful rainstorm. She saw him take a step back and, without thinking, cried out: "Wait!"

He paused, aiming his gaze down at her (which she still couldn't see clearly, for it shone brighter than the morning sun). The tears that had lined her vision slipped and fell; she reached toward him and asked quietly, "Will I ever see you again? Will I ever get to fly with you? The place you come from can only be as beautiful and kind as you are."

She could hear the smile in his response: "All will come in due time."

And then he left as quickly as he came.

* * *

[1] Jeanette was kind of a nickname for Joan when she was a kid, literally meaning "little Joan". It's kinda like being called Sammy when your name is Samantha or Zach when your name is Zachary. There's actually a French musical that came out a few years ago entitled "Jeanette" and follows Joan's childhood before she joined the war.

[2] There are many references to Michael the Archangel in many different religions (in some he is called Saint Michael the Archangel). An archangel is kinda like one of the top angels of God (Gabriel and Raphael are also archangels) and serve God in any way; Michael is more known for being a general of God's army in the Book of Revelation of the New Testament in the Bible where he is to defeat Satan and his band of demons. He is also known as "Protector of the Jewish People" as he saved several important Biblical figures in the Old Testament like Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. In Islam, Michael is responsible for the forces of nature and angels are created from his tears who then follow him. In short, Michael is a very important (and very badass) character in the Christian, Islamic, and Jewish faith who is often seen as a healer, leader, protector, or messenger.


	2. The Hopeful and the Hopeless

****Did y'all know Mark Twain, famous American writer, wrote a novel on Joan of Arc? Dude spent 12 years researching in France and England and another 2 years of writing it. It has quickly become one of my favorite books and you should check it out if you're a huge Joan of Arc fan like myself. (It's called "Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc" if you're interested)**

**And here our story begins!****

"You must let me see him! The fate of this country depends on it!"

"For the last time, I will not allow some random little girl to speak with the Dauphin! He has no time for such nonsense!"

Jeanne was aware of the gathering crowd near the garrison and of her uncle rubbing his temple in embarrassment, but she paid no mind to him and instead focused on winning the full attention of the curious citizens around them.

"This is the second time that you've denied me entry," she announced loudly to the garrison commander, Robert de Baudricourt. "I've told you my story and why I am here and I will continue to repeat it until you let me see the Dauphin!"

With his beady little eyes, Robert watched Jeanne's audience slow their pace and turn their heads, listening in on their argument. It wasn't good for these people to hear such things—Vaucouleurs was a small city and word travelled fast, so if this mad girl in front of him kept yapping her head off, speaking of angels and saints descending from heaven and Englishmen tearing apart Frenchmen into tiny pieces, then people would wonder and worry and, quite possibly, protest. Having a riot on his hands had to be avoided at all costs—there was already a war in them, one that has lasted for several generations—and so he aimed his gaze at the scrawny man next to Jeanne and pointed a finger at him.

"Are you her father?" he whispered lowly.

He flinched at his annoyed tone and answered his question quietly: "Ah, no. I am her uncle, Paul Romée."

"Then why don't you do us all a favor and drag her back home so her father can give her a good slap across the face for talking back to a captain." He glared at Jeanne again. "Good little girls don't talk so much."

Jeanne glared back at him, took two steps backward, and then spoke once more in a voice that was loud and certain: "God has told me that the French have lost a battle to the English at Orléans, near Rouvray. The French and the Scots planned on bringing supplies—much of it was herring—to the contained citizens of Orléans, but they were overwhelmed by the English archers that rained arrows down upon them. Jean de Dunois, the profound military leader of the French, barely escaped with his life."[1] She hesitated before adding, "And there is a man, Francis Bonnefoy, who represents this country in the flesh and blood—his body is deteriorating, his energy is draining. He will come back from this battle with a heavily bruised eye and a limp in his left leg."

Murmurs arose from the lingering crowd behind her, questioning the wild prediction this unknown girl just made. Even her uncle blinked at her as if he too were hearing this for the first time. Nearly all stared in wonder, except for Robert, whose eyes widened significantly and chapped lips frowned deeply.

"How do you know that?" he demanded in a dangerously low voice.

Jeanne smirked. "Know what?"

"All of it! How do you know about the personification and about the Battle of the Herring? We haven't even received the results of it yet! Who told you these things?"

"God has informed me of many things, just as I have informed you the first dozen times of why I am here."

The captain gritted his teeth and raised his hand high in the air. "Why you little—"

"Jeanne."

She heard her uncle whisper in her ear and felt his fingers grip her forearm. As she turned to glare at him, she realized she and Robert were getting so caught up in their argument that they both failed to recognize the slow clatter of horses' hooves and the defeating silence of the crowd around them.

People stepped to the side as a long line of French and Scottish soldiers dragged themselves toward the garrison ahead. Some broke away from the trail to run to their wives and children, embracing them desperately while others lumbered to the nearest tavern with exhaustion and numbness in their eyes. The wounded sat atop the horses who either guided them themselves or had someone else pull the reins from the ground. Grunts of pain and soft crying occasionally broke the heavy silence trudging through the streets; words were not needed to clarify the battle's outcome.

Jeanne whirled back to the dispute. "You see? It is as I have said!"

She noticed Robert watch the approaching soldiers in utter disappointment—shoulders slumped, lips curled back, hands fell limp. But as soon as she spoke, his dark eyes narrowed into slits, glowering at her as if she were a dirty, broken mutt.

"This proves nothing," he growled. "We still don't know what happened."

"Then let's ask one of these men what he had to endure at Orléans. I guarantee he'll tell of the same things that I've told you."

"No, you are not a part of this. Women are not allowed to associate themselves with war; their minds and bodies are far too weak to undergo a man's duty. Even as we speak, your voice and hands shake in emotional stress, therefore, I cannot trust anything that comes out of your mouth."

Through bared teeth, she raised her low whine to a mighty shout: "Your logic is pure nonsense! These words I speak are not mine, but God's. Hear me not as a woman, but as a messenger—"

"Pardonnez-moi, mademoiselle."

The voice behind her didn't belong to her soft-spoken uncle—it was husky and monotoned, yet polite and cautious. She sensed their hand lightly touch the small of her back and then a tall, cloaked figure step around her. Her eyes flicked up and her heart stopped.

Although his hood was up and he barely sent a glance her way, she caught a glimpse of his profile and was shocked at his appearance. At first, she was taken aback by his beauty—she swore she never saw another being as beautiful as he. She gazed at his winter blue eyes, mysterious and dark as the abyss of a frozen lake. His bone structure was sharper than a knife; his nose, cheekbones, and jawline were the most prominent features of his face. Tiny hairs scattered along his jaw, chin, cheeks, and neck. Golden locks curved elegantly around his facial features and rested against his collarbones. If Jeanne didn't know any better, she would've thought him to be an angel, but she _did _know better, for she'd already seen one and he was nowhere near as bruised and bloody as this man.

Fresh and pale scars littered his face as if he spent his pastimes running through thorny bushes. Dark shadows hung from beneath his lovely eyes and outlined his cheeks some, exhaustion and hunger weighing him down with every step. A small wound, open and deep, tore away half of his upper lip which revealed his swollen gums and crooked teeth. His complexion was ghostly pale and with his slumped back and unsteady footfalls, he could've easily been mistaken for some wicked villain that she heard in fairytales. She also couldn't help but notice how he leaned on his right foot as he walked and the large purple bruise over his left eye.

"Sieur," Robert addressed the man, switching his gaze from Jeanne to the man's condition, "are you alright?"

He nodded his head once, not looking him in the eye. "As fine as I'll ever be. We should discuss this in further detail inside, however."

Robert nodded back and went to open the tall wooden door behind him. "Of course. Please—"

Jeanne interrupted everything by dropping to the cobblestones below her and clutching the beautiful man's cloak in her tight fists. Robert stifled a gasp as if she slapped him instead, but she cried in a desperate yet relieved voice before he could ruin anything else:

"Oh, it's you! Sieur Francis Bonnefoy, my poor, blessed country! I've finally found you!"

He glanced down at her, broken features twisting in confusion. "I-I'm sorry?"

She stared at his face, his gorgeously beaten face and gripped his left hand in both of hers. Blue veins zigzagged along the back of his hand, clumps of dirt were stuck underneath his fingernails, and his bony knuckles were as red as cherries. She could've wept at the sight, but she swallowed it down and pressed a firm kiss against his fingers.

"Love and faith brings me here, my good nation," she confessed, speaking quickly and loudly. "I am sent by God to free you of your struggles and suffering. The good Lord has pity on the French people and He asked me to send the English away and bring peace to this corrupted land once again. I've accepted this mission and I give you my everything for your well-being. I will protect you from all harm and seek to it that you shall live for centuries more in a wonderous state of mind and body." She smiled breathlessly. "I am here to save you, Sieur. Put your fears away for I am now here and will not leave your side until my mission is accomplished."

There was a moment of silence between them where they merely stared at one another. Jeanne waited for him to say something, anything, but all was blank—she didn't know what he was thinking. Nothing sparked in his vacant eyes like how she had hoped something would, and his cold hand was lifeless in hers. He only stared without really staring.

"Woman!" Robert barked. "Control yourself and stand at once! You've bothered the man long enough—"

"What is your name?" Francis asked her, his quiet voice shutting Robert up immediately.

She pursed her lips. "D'Arc, Sieur. Jeanne d'Arc."

"How long have you been standing here?"

"Um, perhaps an hour?"

Just then did a small but visible smile etch upon his lips, the hole in his upper lip spreading some. "That's much too long in this freezing February air. Let's get you inside; you must be hungry and tired."

She marveled at how much strength was still in his left arm as he pulled her to her feet with ease.

He looked at her uncle. "You must be her father, I presume?"

"Her uncle. Paul Romée."

"Ah, my apologies, Monsieur Romée. Would you please come inside as well?"

"S-Sieur France," Robert stuttered. "We do not have time for such—"

"Surely you don't want to send a poor girl and her uncle back to the streets where only chilly winds and stale bread will comfort them, no?" Francis intervened with his low voice and tiny smile.

Robert frowned and grumbled under his breath. "No, I suppose not."

"Good then. Right this way, mes amis."

Francis opened the doors and guided them further into the old building. The interior was just as dark and bland as the town itself, the only difference being more furniture and tired soldiers resided here. Men of all ages leaned against walls, sat at chairs, or laid on thin blankets; they slept, talked amongst themselves, or stared off into space. Some had injuries just as bad as Francis's or worse; doctors or other soldiers tried their best at easing their physical pain by wrapping bandages or giving them a drink of wine. Candles flickered at windowsills and she thought she heard a few mice squeak and scuttle their way through the room. There weren't too many soldiers present, however, so she was able to feel every stare on her being as she walked pass them.

Bowing his head to her level, Francis whispered in her ear, "Do pardon their curiosity, Mademoiselle d'Arc, for some of these men have not seen a girl so young nor so foreign within these barracks before."

She frowned, wondering what about her made her appear foreign and what exactly that meant. For now, she chose to ignore it and instead focused on Francis's left arm which he seemed to be using for everything: opening doors, gesturing to people and things, brushing back his hood, scratching his chin. While his left arm moved freely, his left leg had trouble keeping up. It wasn't completely useless, though—it didn't drag behind him like dead weight nor did he grunt in pain whenever he took a step, but it was enough to slow him down which, Jeanne guessed, was a crisis within itself whilst on the battlefield.

He led them to the back of the room where rows of long, wooden tables sat; a few soldiers resided there, mumbling to one another or resting their head down. "Please take a seat," Francis said to Jeanne and Paul as he rounded a table to sit across from them.

As they settled down, Francis told a very pesky Robert, "Why don't you go and get some herring for our guests? I'm sure they've traveled far and wide to get here and must be starving."

Robert flinched as if he just told him to go kick a horse. "And decrease our food rations?"

Francis lowered himself onto the wooden bench slowly and, once seated, aimed a tempered glare his way. The subtle look caught Jeanne's attention; it twisted his youthful, beautiful features into an ugly, old man, angry at the world and the people within it. It worried her to see him like this, so…hopeless.

"If we can't bring food to the people of Orléans, then we might as well give it to someone else who needs it," he snipped at Robert.

This remark silenced Robert, but only for a moment. "Should I fetch a doctor as well?"

"No, I'll be fine."

He gave Francis a long, hard stare before storming off to do as he'd been told.

"Pardon my tone, if you can," he mumbled to Paul and Jeanne as he lightly poked at his bruised eye. "I haven't slept in a while and I can be harsh because of it."

He then rested his chin in his palm and plastered on another little smile. "But never mind that; there are more important matters at stake." He looked at Paul. "Your niece is very clever to know my name, for I don't remember us meeting."

Paul shifted in his seat. "Well, she knows it because God presented it to her in a vision. She also knows that you are not exactly a man, for you are in between a strange case of mortality and immortality. You are a personification of our country to be exact."

He blinked. "That's right, but what do you mean when you say 'God presented it to her in a vision?'"

"In the summer of last year, she said she saw Saint Catherine, Saint Margaret,[2] and Saint Michael the Archangel in the flesh and they told her of a mission that God wanted for her. She's to lift the siege at Orléans and to crown the Dauphin Charles at Reims.[3] The goal, she says, is to keep you alive, no matter what."

A long hesitation ensued. Francis, naturally, looked puzzled, yet the expression wasn't as clear as Robert or Paul or anybody else Jeanne had told. His lips were pursed and his eyebrows furrowed some, but still no trigger of emotion lit up his dull stare.

"And do you…believe this to be true?" His voice didn't lower as he delivered the inquiry.

Paul gave him a serious look. "Jeanne has never lied a day in her life. I have no reason to think that she would make this up."

Jeanne was used to this sort of talk, the kind when two people converse about her as she sits silently off to the side (her father often did this with her mother and the town's preacher). She wasn't offended, but instead was fixated with Francis's various injuries, her heart sagging at the sight. She'd never seen anyone so broken before, both physically and emotionally. No wonder God sent her his way—there was much to do and, even though they've never met before that day, she was more than willing to die for her country.

"What happened to your arm?" she blurted out suddenly.

Both men stopped talking and looked at her. Paul frowned, scolding her lightly, "Jeanne! Don't ask the man such personal questions."

"It's quite alright," Francis assured. "I suppose I couldn't conceal it for long anyhow."

He then unsnapped the clasp at his collarbone, shrugged out of his cloak, and placed it beside him. She stifled a gasp from behind her hand. It wasn't the dried bloodstains splattered across his dull armor that frightened her, but his missing right limb, from the tip of his shoulder to the curve of his fingernails. She stared in horror, swallowing another sob that tickled in the back of her throat.

"My apologies, mademoiselle," she heard Francis mumble. "I wouldn't have shown you if I'd known you were sensitive to a French soldier's body."

Her eyes flicked back to his. His smile was now crooked, trying to add some light humor to the situation, yet she could see the self-consciousness in it as well.

She removed her hand from her mouth and hardened her gaze. "What happened to your arm?" she asked him again.

His grin faded away. "For the safety of your sanity, I won't answer that question."

"Who did this to you? I must know!"

"Jeanne." Paul placed a hand on her forearm. "We're now moving on from this topic."

"And going back to the subject of you," Francis added. "Is everything your uncle said true?"

She paused but responded confidently: "Yes."

"Hm. Excuse me, but I can't help but to point out your accent. Are you from Lorraine?"

She nodded. "Domrémy."[4]

"Is it just you and your uncle?"

"No. I have a father, a mother, and three older brothers. My mother asked my uncle to travel with me for protection because I dared not to ask my parents nor my brothers nor anyone else in the village to accompany me on such a dangerous mission. My uncle is returning home once I receive a gathering to take me to the Dauphin, but two of my brothers and a few of my friends will come with me to Orléans as soldiers."

Francis blinked. "And where are they now?"

A small grin laced Jeanne's lips. "Probably in some tavern, prying a war story out of one of your men."

Francis returned the gesture. "Well, I hope they're not disappointed then."

As he said this, a plate clattered onto the table in front of Jeanne and Paul. Jeanne jolted at the sudden noise and peered at the pickled herring before her, its grey scales and pink meat awakening the hunger in her stomach that she'd forgotten about. Without really noticing Robert plopping down next to Francis nor her uncle's hesitancy towards the food, she picked up a slice and bit off a piece. It wasn't anything spectacular, but she nevertheless enjoyed it.

"Do you have any plans for raising the siege of Orléans?" Francis asked her. "Or how to coronate Dauphin Charles under English law?"

She glanced up from the plate and replied through a mouthful of fish: "It is as you say—raise the siege and crown the Dauphin."

"I'm afraid you misunderstand me. I mean have you considered how to carry out these…prophecies of God?"

"I don't misunderstand anything. God has commanded me to do these things, therefore, they will be done."

Francis paused only for a moment, but it was all Robert needed to wiggle his way into the conversation. He shifted around to face Francis fully and asked, "Was the campaign a complete failure?"

Silence once again became Francis's answer, but he eventually heaved a sigh and mumbled out the details of the battle as if he had been dreading this moment all day.

"I'm afraid so. The English have put up their defenses all around the city and, though their numbers are fewer than ours, each soldier was trained to perfection. Arrows rained from the sky, killing or wounding several of our men—many of them were Scotsmen, I believe, for their armor is not as well-protected as our own. We did manage to take down a good portion of the English fortifications with gunpowder artillery, however, so I suggest we invest in more of it and train our soldiers how to properly use it in order to obtain victory at the next battle. Yet this last campaign I consider another failure because of…" He trailed off as his hand circled the air aimlessly, trying to think of the right word to say. "…my hesitation, my fear, my weakness, I don't know what, the English surrounded us and stole as much as they could—supplies, herrings, and human lives.",

Jeanne felt her heart crack at the overwhelming aura of shame and sorrow that this poor man carried. She couldn't stand the sight of his empty eyes, his blank expression as if nothing mattered anymore. _But it does! _she wanted to shout at him. _The moment when you lose hope is the moment when you lose everything. All battles are first won or lost in the mind and if you keep thinking like this, then you'll not only lose yourself but the entire war as well. Never give up hope! _

"Was England's personification present?" Robert asked.

Francis nodded. "He still guards the gates of Orléans."

Jeanne's spine bolted upright as if she'd been struck by lightning. "Wait, England has a personification, too?"

Francis glimpsed at her shocked face. "There exists a personification for every nation that this world has to offer."

"And where has Sieur Scotland gone to now?" Robert inquired.

Francis turned back to him. "He went back to his country to attend to his own wounds and to gather more Scottish soldiers."

Robert's expression made Jeanne think that the "gathering of more Scottish soldiers" was considered a difficult task. It was his turn to pause and reflect on the situation at hand before sighing heavily and muttering out between his stiff lips, "I can't believe it."

A humorless chuckle echoed from Francis's throat. "You can't believe that we're losing terribly to the English? Do you fail to realize how close I am to extinction?"

Both Jeanne and Paul were startled by his sudden switch of tone—it was angry and frightened and miserable and desperate. His dull stare flashed in worry and his drooping lips curled back to reveal sharpened teeth, but this wave of emotions went as quickly as it came. At that, Jeanne's spirits rose again, for now she knew that there was something still inside him, something that wanted to fight back.

Robert glared, either oblivious to Francis's little emotional bout or used to such things. "Of course not. I meant—"

"Do the English know of your whereabouts?" Jeanne interrupted, putting her half-eaten herring back on her plate.

Francis turned to her once again. "No, and they haven't for a while now. Because I have no king, they believe that I have no place to be. It is a country's duty to serve his ruler, no matter what the order requires. Through English eyes, I could be anywhere."

"But you do have a king! The young Dauphin will soon be crowned King Charles VII of France and he shall be nicknamed 'the Victorious', for he'll reign all of France again and drive back the English from whence they came."

He leaned forward slightly, his face and tone all the more serious. "Yet his father, King Henry, disabled him from the throne once he signed the Treaty of Troyes."

Just seconds ago, her heart was full with the knowledge of Francis's will to fight (yes, it was small, but she was willing to work with that), and now it shrunk once more at what exactly he was fighting for.

"But the Lord says…" She failed to finish her protest, the look in her country's eyes striking back at her words. It was as if he knew what she was going to say next and wasn't impressed by any of it. For a horrifying moment, she wondered if she were wasting her breath.

Only for a moment.

Anger bubbled in her chest as she gripped the old, raggedy fabric of her skirt in tight fists. "You don't believe me," she stated (although it sounded more like a growl).

Expressionless, his lips lifted slightly and his head tilted to the side. "I believe you're upset over the war and wish to help. I admire your ambition, but the battlefield is much too atrocious for a young woman like yourself. Thank you for your concern, Mademoiselle d'Arc, but we have things under control. I will assign a soldier to escort you back home if you'd like."

"To lie is to sin," she hissed at him, "and you do so with your petty words and meaningless smile. You're not fooling me. I'm not going anywhere until one of you takes me to the Dauphin."

As expected, the smile was wiped clean off his face. He shifted in his seat and muttered, "Well then, I suppose you're going to stay here for quite a while because I'm not taking some nosy little girl from the middle of nowhere to a boy who doesn't even know how to be a king."

Jeanne sprang to her feet at that; her chair screeched against the dirty floor and her pelvis bumped into the table, causing it and the plate of herring to jump forward a few inches. All eyes were on her now, but she ignored them, entirely focused on the angry knot forming in the pit of her stomach.

"So you'd rather listen to a dead man than to me?" she barked at him. "No wonder you're falling apart—you cling to a bag of bones instead of accepting what is gone and learning how to defend yourself from the very thing that killed him. Don't you want to live in happiness and in faith? Or do you wish to waste the rest of your days in misery?"

She felt her uncle grasp at her arm again. "Jeanne, sit down!"

"Do you want me to tell him about your prophecies or not?" Robert snapped.

Her glare met his. He was clearly still irritated with her and probably didn't want to be saying any of this in the first place, yet there was something new in his expression. Though minute, a flicker of amazement lingered in his small, dark eyes even though he tried covering it up with his usual annoyed look. Were her shouts and pleads finally breaking through that thick skull of his?

Nevertheless, she was suspicious of what he might tell Francis—was the captain a natural liar or an honest man?—but she didn't have much of a choice because Paul kept tugging on her limb until she lowered back into her chair.

Robert huffed and once again turned toward Francis. He gazed at her and she gazed at him. She couldn't stand the sight of the heavy vacantness within those ocean blue eyes; he looked so empty, so disheartened. It frightened her, but she continued to stare as if she could somehow send a ray of hope his way. He needed it more than she did.

Robert explained Jeanne's futuristic claims from the outcome of the battle to Francis's bruised eye and hobbling leg. He spoke the truth (to Jeanne's relief) and she could hear a slow rise of anticipation in his voice. Satisfaction fluttered in her chest; after what seemed like many hours of difficult persuasion, Robert was starting to finally see what she came here to do.

_It's coming along, God, _she silently told her creator. _I will soon bring Sieur Bonnefoy to safety._

Francis, however, was indifferent to all that was said. With his golden locks hanging in front of his eyes, he peeked at Robert. "And what do you want me to do with this information?"

"Well, everything she's predicted about the war turned out to be true, so…" He paused, sighed, and then went on. "…perhaps we should send her to the dauphin."

Jeanne and Paul exchanged looks—Jeanne grinned proudly while Paul nodded in encouragement—but Francis merely frowned. "You believe this, yet you were the one who wanted her back on the streets. What has overcome you?"

"How could she know these things?" Robert demanded in sharp whispers. "Only a messenger of God would make such strangely accurate claims. What if God feels pity for the people of France—who have suffered for nearly a hundred years—and has sent this girl to relieve them of their pain and bring this horrendous war to an end?"

"But how? How can something like that happen? She's from Domrémy, a place where nothing ever happens and she has absolutely no military experience whatsoever. She's undoubtedly illiterate, too. How can this possibly work?"

"You don't think that all this is somewhat odd? How could a peasant girl from nowhere who knows nothing of militaria, strategic, nor governmental affairs—not even how to read or write like you said—yet knew who you were upon sight, knew the results of the campaign before I was made aware of it, and even knew what sort of injuries you'd receive? Perhaps it's a sign from God?"

"It is."

Robert and Francis peered at Jeanne, who had her chin up high and a smirk tugging at her lips. Her stare lingered on Francis; he wasn't amused in the slightest. She could tell he wasn't pleased about where this conversation was going, but he also didn't have enough energy to keep on bickering. Despite what he might've thought of her or whatever negative comment he had to say, she leaned forward, cupped a hand around her mouth, and whispered lowly as if spilling a secret, "It says to take me to the Dauphin."

* * *

[1] Also famously known as the "Bastard of Orleans", de Dunois was one of the main followers of Joan of Arc, helping her raise the siege of Orleans, her first successful battle. He is referred to as the Bastard of Orleans because he was the illegitimate son of Louis I, Duke of Orleans and his mistress Mariette d'Enghien; his father was assassinated in 1407 and in 1415 his half-older-brother Charles was captured by the English and remained a prisoner for 25 years, leaving Jean as the only male representative of Orleans. His "title" is actually a term of respect and nobility—although he was a royal bastard or a child born of wedlock, the people considered him the acting head to a branch in the royal family, making Charles VII (the Dauphin, in this case) his first cousin. Name sake aside, the Bastard of Orleans had a pretty wild ride in life: he joined the Armagnacs in the French civil war (the side that wanted the English out of France) in 1418, was captured and then released in 1420, fought alongside Joan in the Hundred Years War, and continued his services long after her death, actually assisting in the conquest of Guienne and Normandy which occurred in the final years of the war in the 1450s. Dude was loyal to France and Joan, so you'll definitely be seeing more of him.

[2] Saint Catherine was born in Alexandria, Egypt to the city's governor Constus. At age 14, she saw a vision of the Virgin Mary and baby Jesus which helped her convert to Christianity. When Roman emperor Maxentius began persecution of Christians, she went to the emperor and basically called him out on his bullshit and cruelty. She was then thrown into a cell where she was tortured by whip-lashings. Maxentius planned to starve her to death, but Catherine was fed daily by a dove from heaven and Christ himself appeared before her, telling her to keep on fighting. Apparently 200 people came to visit her and all converted to Christianity and were martyred shortly after. Maxentius then tried to win her over by offering her hand in marriage, but she refused, saying that Jesus was her only love and spouse. He intended to publicly torture her some more on a spiked breaking wheel, but upon impact, the wheel broke. She was then beheaded at the age of 17 and instead of blood, a milk-like substance flowed from her neck.

Saint Margaret was born in Hungary in 1045 and ended up marrying Malcolm III of Scotland in 1070. She was a devout Roman Catholic and managed to convince her husband and three sons (who all became kings later on) that religion was highly important when ruling a country. She assisted with her country's poor as much as she could, often washing their feet in imitation of Jesus. She attended mass nearly every day, managed to establish a monastery, and used a cave in Dunfermline as a place of public worship and prayer (now dubbed St. Margaret's Cave). She's also known for releasing English exiles who were forced into serfdom by the Norman conquest of 1066. She read and prayed as often as she did in public and Malcolm, though a little oblivious to the huge impact she was making in the Roman Catholic society, admired how she loved reading (he was illiterate) and had her books decorated in gold and silver—the two shared a rare and happy marriage during the Middle Ages. She died of grief in 1093 after hearing the deaths of her husband and her oldest son, Edward, during the Battle of Alnwick against the English; she was later canonized in 1250 for her efforts on improving and spreading the Catholic faith.

[3] At this point in the war, England and France shared one king, Henry V. The Treaty of Troyes was signed on 21 May 1420 and said not only this, but that Henry's son, Henry VI, would automatically inherit the French crown after French King Charles VI's death (he was even betrothed to Charles's daughter Catherine so that the two countries would have a marriage alliance as well). His oldest son, Charles VII, was excluded from taking the crown as was any other members of the royal French family. In other words, France was slowly bending to England's rule and there was nothing they could do about it. But if Joan were to crown Charles VII as the French king, this would be a giant "fuck you, England" and would hype up the war even more.

[4] Lorraine is a territory (now a part of the Grand-Est region) within northeastern France, near the border of Germany and Belgium. Lorraine actually has a lot of German history, so the French accent there has a hint of a German dialect in it so it can sound a bit rougher, a little scratchy compared to other French accents. Joan's accent was apparently a little hard to understand (at least to native English speakers). Domrémy is now called Domrémy-la-Pucelle in honor of Joan—she often went by Jeanne la Pucelle or La Pucelle d'Orléans, meaning the Maid of Orléans. The town is extremely small, covering only 3.47 square miles (excluding lakes and ponds) and has a population of 117 (since 2016). But Joan's little square home is still standing there which has been turned into a museum today.


	3. How Strange Indeed

****Update: I got a Joan of Arc sweater that is both empowering to my self-esteem and super comfy. That is all; enjoy mon amis****

Francis felt rather annoyed at being ignored, which didn't happen too often. In fact, it was usually the opposite—he tried blending into the shadows to avoid the eyes of the English and his own people. Some days he wished he could disappear without a trace, to be swallowed up by the night sky or to become one with the juniper trees. But now that this little girl was unknowingly stealing the attention from him, he suddenly sensed tiny sparks of jealousy bubbling in his chest.

Robert—damn him straight to hell—made the final decision of sending Jeanne to Charles the Dauphin in Chinon, but not before making a few ground-rules. First, in order to be certain about Jeanne's good intentions, he brought in a priest to check and see if she were possibly possessed and if she was truly a virgin like she said (he had to make sure that no demon was controlling her body and mind and that no man or lover was putting her up to all this). She agreed to the exorcist but, as she frowned deeply and wrapped her dress tightly around her legs, she said she would only allow a female to inspect her virginity.

Absolutely nothing demonic happened during the exorcist—she held a small cross and the bible with gentle and loving hands and didn't flinch or twist away at the holy words the priest spoke. There wasn't a woman with a legal or royal label to her name in Vaucouleurs, but a couple of "lingering companions" volunteered to determine Jeanne's virginity. The women were behind closed doors for only a few moments, and when they emerged with Jeanne, one of them laughed and said, "Trust us, gentlemen. No man has dared to venture between her legs!"

Jeanne shot a deadly glare at her, one that reminded Francis of a rabid dog.

Robert also said that she needed to bring her brothers and friends into the garrison where they all would be trained how to ride a warhorse and how to wield a weapon because if they wished to get to the Dauphin, they would be travelling through English territory and must learn how to defend themselves.

She agreed to this as well and brought them the next day.

Five young boys waddled after Jeanne like lost ducklings, absorbing their surroundings in boyish interest and stumbling over one another whenever they tried catching up to her fast pace. They all were gushing over his missing arm as Jeanne introduced them to him.

"These are my two brothers, Jean and Pierre," she said, pointing at two tall brunet boys right behind her. Jean had short cropped hair—much like the popular style among the knights Francis knew—and had Jeanne's round button nose. Pierre was the tallest of the siblings; he had some wave in his hair and shared Jeanne's hickory brown eyes.

"Pierre's twenty-one and Jean's twenty-five," she added. "They both have wanted to be a part of the army for as long as I've been around."

Pierre awkwardly reached out to shake Francis's only hand. "It's a great honor to meet you, Sieur France, and it's an even greater honor to fight with you. Joining your army has been my soul purpose in life."

Jean shook his hand with such strength and rapid speed that Francis was honestly left a little breathless. "I cannot believe my eyes! The personification of France, my beloved country, is standing right in front of me! Oh, what a memorable day this is! I will proudly stand by your side until the day I die!"

Francis let out a breathy chuckle. "Thank you, young sirs. The pleasure is mine."

"This is Louis de Conte," Jeanne said. She placed a hand on the shoulder of a skinny blond boy with very thin lips and round eyes. He had a mole near the corner of his right eye.

"He possesses a special skill that the rest of us don't carry," she flattered like a proud mother. "He knows how to read and write."

"A very special skill indeed," Francis agreed and shook his hand which was small and cold. "I'm glad to have you here, Monsieur de Conte."

Louis nodded shyly. "Thank you, Sieur. It's nice to meet you."

Jeanne then pulled a muscular boy with a square face and very dark hair from the side and placed him in front of Francis. He seemed fascinated with a nearby soldier's bloody bandaged head. "This is Edmond Aubrey. He also has had dreams of taking part in the French army."

His small blue eyes widened at the sight of Francis and he asked rather bluntly, "What happened to your arm?"

Francis shrugged. "I lost it."

"That's just swell," muttered a short boy with midnight hair with freckles decorating his cheeks and arms. "Ask the man with no arm whatever happened to it. That'll guarantee you friends for sure."

Edmond glared at the boy beside him. "Quiet you."

Jeanne rolled her eyes and gestured to her freckled friend. "And this is Noël Rainguesson. He is naturally annoying so don't let the things he says get to you."

"That's not true, Sieur," Noël insisted. "I am annoying upon request and if I offend thee, it is because I admire you."

Francis smiled a tight smile. "I certainly hope you fight as well as you…intimidate because jokes won't save you on the battlefield."

"Au contraire, I've gotten out of—"

Jeanne slapped a hand over his mouth and glared at him. "He said no jokes, Noël."

The boy huffed through her fingers but said no more.

The effect Jeanne had on these young men was amazing—it was clear that they trusted her greatly and did whatever it was they were told which was something his own army had trouble doing. _That's impossible, _Francis thought with a frown. _Those visions of the saints and prophecies from God can't be true. These boys only follow her because they're close friends and are concerned for her safety. After all, God hasn't answered any of my prayers in such a long time; it's obvious He doesn't care what happens to me anymore. _

Robert assigned Francis to train Jeanne and her volunteers well enough so that they could at least defend themselves if anything were to happen on the road to Chinon. And that's exactly what he did—he taught them the bare minimum, not wanting to spend too much time on something he'd probably end up leading back home. One day he brought along five other soldiers with them to a nearby field so the inexperienced youths could learn how to ride a warhorse. As his men assisted her companions, Francis did the same with Jeanne.

"If possible, you should try to understand your steed before riding her," he instructed, tugging on its reins. "You need her to trust you because she determines where to go, not you."

Jeanne nodded quickly as if her life depended on it. "Does she have a name?"

"Isabelle."

Her eyes lit up in delight. "That's my mother's name!"

Francis blinked slowly. "Then you two should get along just fine."

Jeanne gently stroked the stallion's snow white neck with a sweet smile. "I promise to watch over you as my own mother has watched over me," she murmured to it.

Isabelle fluttered her eyelids and leaned into her touch. Jeanne's smile widened as she ran a hand down her nose. Francis, meanwhile, frowned at the creature, knowing that she wasn't fond of most and it took her a while just to get used to him.

_Thank you for proving my point, _he silently grumbled at the animal before moving on with his lecture.

He explained the riding equipment and armor of a warhorse that adorned Isabelle, gesturing to each one or adjusting the straps of others. He described how to react in certain situations while on a horse and what to do if the steed was injured in any way. Jeanne softly petted her assigned stallion as he spoke, and she stared at him intently, listening to every word he said.

He finally jerked his chin in the direction of the saddle. "Have you ever ridden a horse before?"

She shook her head. "No."

He raised an eyebrow. "Not even on your father's farm?"

"We never could afford such a luxury. I only know how to take milk from a cow and eggs from a chicken."

Francis peeked over her head at her brothers. Jean was already atop his steed with his instructor on another horse beside him and Pierre was lifting himself onto his own. Louis was slowly guiding his steed out of line while his instructor followed him encouragingly. He also noticed Edmond and Noël trying to push the other off his horse further back.

He glanced down at Jeanne and grinned. "If you take after Jean, Pierre, or even Louis, then you will become an excellent horsewoman."

Before she could register what he meant by that, he asked her to get on the horse.

Placing a foot inside the stirrup, she grabbed the edge of the swells and the cantle but couldn't swing her leg high enough to get on the seat itself.[1] Isabelle was bigger than the average steed, but Francis didn't think Jeanne would have a problem maneuvering her. (But that was before he learned that she has never ridden a horse in her life.)

As Jeanne struggled to get into the seat, her brothers trotted pass them, trailing after Louis with big smiles on their faces. Francis watched her try again a couple more times before getting a little impatient. A low sigh escaped him, letting the reins slip through his fingers. He then placed his hand on her ass and shoved her upwards. She squeaked and landed fully on top of the horse who hardly stumbled at all.

Her eyes sharpened into daggers, hissing through her teeth like a snake, "Don't touch me!"

"Pardon me, Mademoiselle," he replied, grabbing the reins once more, "I was only assisting you in getting onto your horse."

He began walking ahead and, pulling the leather reins with him, Isabelle strolled after him. Jeanne adjusted herself in the saddle and deepened her piercing scowl. She opened her mouth to hurl insults or some foul language at him when Noël came by on his steed.

He faked a look of shock and then whispered teasingly, "Jeanette! Are you already seducing our country's personification? I wasn't aware that was a part of God's plan."

Jeanne's cheeks burned with fury. "You slimy little toad!" she barked at him, reaching out to seize his cloak. Noël smacked his reins lightly and his almond brown steed skipped ahead; her fingers barely brushed against his arm and they heard him snicker to himself as he rode away.

She bent down to yank the reins out of Francis's grasp, but he saw it coming and moved it out of the way. "You can't chase another stallion until you've learned how to guide one," he stated simply.

At that, she let out a loud groan and clutched the horn of the saddle with both hands and appeared rather irritated. Francis's hair fell in front of his eyes and his lips tilted up in amusement. Despite her loud mouth and extreme stubbornness, he found her bursts of emotion and determination to beat up her friend very entertaining.

On another day, when the weather was unexpectedly warm, they all went outside to practice swordplay and spear-throwing and some stealth attacks. The newcomers had the same instructors as before and tried following in their footsteps—obviously they were slow and made several mistakes, yet Francis noticed that as time wore on, they gained many useful skills they didn't possess earlier like wielding daggers and being knowledgeable in hand-to-hand combat.

Jeanne was surprisingly good at throwing spears. She had a steady grip, great perception on aiming, and a much higher stamina than he anticipated. He had stood by and watched her glare into the distance before hurling the long, wooden spear with such strength and preciseness that each throw couldn't help but to hit the target every time.

"Are you certain you've never had any military experience?" he asked her with an astonished smirk.

Not realizing he was half-joking, she returned the smile and shook her head, her thick fuzzy hair whipping about her. "None at all! I was never aware that I carried this ability."

Filled with excitement, she took up the wooden longsword he offered her and bounced after him for her second lesson.

Francis led her far into the open field, so that they had enough space to move around, but they were close enough that he could keep an eye on the other soon-to-be soldiers as well. He spotted Edmond using those muscles of his to punch and kick his way to the top while Louis was having trouble throwing his spear farther than twenty feet. Jean had dropped his sword a couple times, Pierre managed to hit his instructor with the hilt of his sword, and Noël, who was an inch or two taller than Jeanne, was small and quick enough to dodge each blow that came his way.

After double-checking to see if all was well, Francis turned back to Jeanne—she was holding the sword with one hand and swatting at the air in slow arcs.

"Ah, wait a moment!" He grasped her forearm. "You must _always_ be careful with all things you wield; you could seriously harm yourself."

"I _am _being careful," she insisted like the stubborn child she was.

"No, you're not."

He grabbed her left hand and wrapped it around the base of the hilt with her right hand right above it. "The dominant hand—which is always the right hand—must be near the guard when holding a sword. You'll have better control over your weapon this way."

He then pulled out his own wooden longsword and enlightened her with its parts, moves, and the deadly consequences it carried. Most of their time was spent in lecture rather than hands-on experience, so he eventually switched his teaching method. He told her to try and defeat him in any way she could—hit a limb, knock the sword out of his hand, push him to the ground—anything to assure her dominance and strength over the situation.

He purposefully slowed down and left his defenses wide open. Jeanne was gladly keeping up with him and looked like she was having fun, but she eventually figured out what he was doing and was no longer smiling.

"You're going easy on me," she stated, suddenly going stiff.

He tilted his head to the side. "Of course I am. I want you to understand what to do when—"

"If you really wanted me to understand, then you wouldn't be babying me or leading me to become slow when I really should be going as fast as I can, just like with horseback-riding. Why were you holding the reins when everyone else was flying down the road? The English won't go easy on me, and neither should you."

Francis remained silent, observing Jeanne as she threw her little tantrum. Her muddy brown hair was tied in two thick braids (though they were starting to become undone) and her large, angry eyes matched its color perfectly. Her face and nose were equally as round, but her lips and eyebrows were narrow like ribbons. As if to prove her youth, red pimples littered along her hairline and jaw. She wore a moss green skirt and a royal blue tunic that came to her calves. Thin leather boots covered her small feet, but they were worn-out, falling apart at the seams.

_So young and naïve and full of energy, _he thought to himself, watching her mouth move angrily but not listening to her. _How old is she anyhow? I feel so tired and slow all the time—her liveliness is almost confusing. God, I feel so old around her. _

"To be honest, I've never taught a young woman combat before," he interrupted her. "You're very small and I'm afraid of pushing you too far. I don't want to hurt you." He sighed. "You…have no idea of what you're getting yourself into."

Jeanne paused, lifted her chin, looked him straight in the eye, and said, "You may be right, but I'm still going to do it anyway." She stepped back and raised her sword into a fighting stance. "Fight me with all you've got from now on. I won't give up until I win."

He pursed his lips (or what was left of them) and sighed again. "As you wish. After all, it can't be too difficult to defeat an old man with one arm."

His gaze narrowed in on her, observing every tiny and sluggish move she made (which was quite often). She huffed to herself before thrusting forward to hit his stomach with the tip of the wooden sword. He dodged it easily and knocked it the other way. She swung it back around, but he dropped to the ground and pushed his sword against her calves—she fell with a hard thud.

"Dead," he simply said.

She glared viciously and roared as she scrambled to her knees to chop off his head. He tumbled back, hopped to his feet, and banged his weapon against her collarbone. She grunted, but didn't cry out.

"Dead," he repeated.

Fury took hold of her grasp as she wildly began to swing at him, no aim on anything. He sidestepped through it all with such ease and then, when he had the chance, he whipped his sword against her knuckles. She gasped in quick pain but didn't have time to react once he kicked her upper body back to the ground and dived the sword into the hard ground beside her head. A low cracking sound came from the weapon.

"Dead," he muttered once more before yanking back the sword, standing back up, and moving toward the rest of the group. "Stand up. We're going back."

"No! I'm not done with you!"

"Well, I'm done with you—you and your rambling mouth."

"Stop running away, you coward!"

He heard her grunt again and, when he glanced over his shoulder, he saw a wooden blade flying towards his head. In one swift movement, he ducked, raised his sword, and chucked it at Jeanne. It exploded into several pieces upon impact. Jeanne yelped, but did not cry or break her stare—she eyed him like a small feline that got drenched in the rain. No major cuts were on her face or hands and she didn't appear to be in any particular pain.

Feeling an angry knot form in the pit of his stomach, Francis clamped his teeth together and hissed through them, pointing at Jeanne's huddled form. He could feel the chilled air seeping into his gums as he did so.

"You don't know what you're getting yourself into. This _is_ war we're talking about—do you know what that means? If you go on with this, then you and your friends will drown in years of blood and violence and betrayal. There's a great chance you won't go back home. Do you understand? The scars seen here are nothing compared to the horrors out there. I don't know who you are, but I don't want to see you get hurt either. Can't you see that I'm trying to save your life?"

He didn't wait for her to pull at her hair and argue some more or hang her head and follow him back. The heaviness in his chest grew even more, just when he thought it couldn't get any worse.

The week dragged on, slower than an earthworm inching across dry cobblestones. Robert spoke with Jeanne and her uncle often; Francis noticed the other soldiers becoming acquainted with her as well. She was very charming in conversation (whenever she wasn't in some heated debate) and made them feel important—all her attention went to them. She'd smile sweetly, nod her head, face them fully. For a moment, she seemed like a completely different person.

Francis tried to ignore this and instead focused on the trip to Chinon; he recruited soldiers, packed provisions, and wondered what in the world he would say to the Dauphin. It'd been nearly a year since he last saw him—Francis had been on the run for a long time, escaping the clutches of the English and the Burgundians. He figured it'd be unsafe for the both of them if he stayed by Charles's side during the war; it would be easier for their enemies to find and kill them. Charles, as far as everyone knew, was following the rules of the treaty and not contributing to the war whatsoever. Francis, however, was obviously acting with the Armagnacs, therefore he was the more valuable chess piece.

It was one of those rare moments in history when the personification was more important than the monarch, which was why when Jeanne had called his name and fell to his feet at their first meeting, Robert became a pail of water, overflowing with anxiety and sloshing it around for all to see. He supposed he should've been nervous too—there might've been a spy in the crowd and even if there wasn't, the citizens would definitely talk. But he just didn't care, not anymore. What difference would it make anyhow?

These thoughts ran through his mind as he lumbered around the stables, feeding the horses that he selected for the journey in two days. He held up a bucket of hay to a small charger, dark as night, watching it munch away without really looking at it. He was soon snapped out of his trance, however, by loud footfalls and an even louder voice.

"Sieur France."

He didn't need to lift his head to know that it was Jeanne but did it anyway. There she was, standing in the center of the stables with her hands behind her back and her hair free of any braids. She wore a look of concern on her face as if she'd forgot something important but couldn't remember what it was.

"Mademoiselle d'Arc," he said. "Is there something I can do for you?"

"I'm hoping you can," she mumbled as she slowly made her way toward him. She glanced at the stallion who stopped eating to study the new arrival. A small grin tugged on her lips.

"What a beautiful creature," she murmured, more so to herself than to Francis.

He hummed in response and set down the bucket inside the stall. He then scratched his jaw and, without really looking at Jeanne, asked nonchalantly, "What do you have behind your back?"

From the corner of his eye, he saw her flinch a little and then her shoulders slump forward. She hesitantly held out a small brush and a pair of scissors. He faced her fully and smirked. "Have I annoyed you so much that you've already come to kill me?"

Her mouth dropped at the half-joke in an almost comical way. "I would _never _commit such a sin! Your life is more precious than most; that is why I'm here, to protect it."

He still found this "I'm-here-to-save-you" exclamation so strange, so unordinary. He can't remember the last time anyone has said such a thing to him (mortal or not), which made him think it probably never happened in the first place. The roles have switched in this tragic fable—_he _was the damsel in distress and _she _was the noble knight here to save him from all harm. He honestly was a little curious to see how this fairytale would end.

"Then why do you have scissors?" he asked her.

She held them to her chest and her eyes lowered to a particular piece of hay on the ground. "I was wondering if you'd be willing to cut my hair for me. I also need to speak with you on other matters." She added this last part a little louder, in hopes of it overshadowing her first request.

He frowned. "Why do you want to cut your hair?"

She huffed through her nose as if she dreaded that very question. "Well, I figured it'd be safe and convenient if my hair were short—very short, like most of the soldiers here—because then it wouldn't be in the way and…no one could grab it and…I thought that maybe everyone would take me more seriously if I looked like a man."

Francis felt his eyebrows twitch in thought. Did all this stir up from a week ago when he snapped at her? When he said "I've never taught a young woman combat before" or "I'm done with you—you and your rambling mouth", did it hurt her so much that she believed cutting her hair short would solve the problem? He also wondered if any of his men did something to push this theory further; he could only imagine what a teenage girl would feel about these tired and beaten-up men who are eyeing her healthy body and hearing her words of good virtues.

He sighed. "Look, I'm—"

"This decision is mine, Sieur France," she interrupted quickly, "and it has nothing to do with you. No one has influenced me to do this; this is all my doing." She straightened her posture and lifted the scissors and brush towards him. "Will you please cut my hair?"

He looked at the items and then back at her. "Pardon me, but perhaps you are forgetting that I lack two hands? I believe you would have better results from someone who meets that standard."

He self-consciously rubbed his stubby shoulder as he said this, painfully aware of the empty sleeve brushing against his side.

Jeanne snorted. "I've forgotten nothing. I have seen you perform remarkable tasks with only one hand; you have gotten very used to it, I can tell. Also it's just hair—it'll grow back and frankly, I do not care how it turns out, just that it's short."

Knowing that she wouldn't let him go, he hesitantly took the scissors and brush. He could sense a spark in him that was actually glad she was asking this favor of him—he felt useful, that he was getting something done for once and the results would be satisfactory. This feeling swelled when she smiled up at him and when she said "Thank you" in such a grateful and sincere manner, he couldn't stop his own smile from creeping upon his scarred lips. (Yet he could still feel the shame behind it, so he quickly dropped it.)

Her eyes wandered about the stables as if noticing it for the first time since she entered. She spotted a barrel tucked into a corner along with a misplaced cloak and a small empty crate. "Now this arrangement was practically meant to be," she proclaimed as she waddled over. She kicked the crate closer to the barrel, stepped on it, threw the cloak over her shoulders, and then sat atop the barrel. She glanced at him expectantly, and he unknowingly slipped in another grin.

_She's quite adorable, _he thought to himself, strolling toward her.

"Why do you put so much faith in me, Mademoiselle?" he asked as he stepped behind her. "I fear I may disappoint you."

"If the Lord wants to keep you alive and well, then I presume you to be a very special and honorable person. I trust you with many things." She paused then uttered, "You can call me by my name, if you like. You don't have to address me as 'mademoiselle' all the time."

She whipped around in her seat and looked up at him with a serious expression. "I would like for us to become friends."

He was struck momentarily by her straightforwardness, by that sincere look in her eyes that somehow made them shine brighter than any star in the clear night sky. When was the last time he met someone like this? It seemed like a lifetime, and he was relieved to have her near.

He shrugged playfully, his lips quirked. "If that's the case, then there's no need to call me 'Sieur France'—it's merely a title. You knew my name even before we had a proper introduction, so perhaps we've been friends long before we knew one another."

At that, a wide smile spread across her face like butter and he swore he saw her cheeks flush red before she shifted back around. His gaze landed on her long, tangled hair—it was thick, wavy, frizzy, dry, heavily knotted. He set the scissors down beside Jeanne and held up the brush as if it were a weapon.

"Do you understand how brushes work?" he asked her slowly.

She made a dramatic effort of crossing her arms and huffing loudly. "Yes, I do—I just don't have the time to do it every single day."

"Don't have the time to…" He trailed off, shook his head, and pursed his lips. "Never mind. Anyway, this will probably hurt."

Just as he said this, he ran the brush through her hair but it quickly got stuck—Jeanne's head was thrown back, nearly colliding onto his chest as she squeezed her eyes shut and let out a tiny shriek. Once she regained her posture with tight fists gripping the edge of the barrel, he thought_,_ _This is going to take a lot more time than what I had in mind_. But he didn't believe this to be a bad thing at all.

As Francis continued brushing and snipping at her hair for the next hour, the two chatted over each other's backgrounds, becoming familiar with their personalities and interests and frustrations and other things one should know about a person. He learned about her third brother's decision to stay back home in Domrémy to look after their parents (but Francis knew it was because he didn't want to get involved with the war) and about her love for animals. She asked him about the people he trusted the most (the list wasn't long at all) and about his hobbies—she became very interested in his delight for poetry and sketching.

He eventually changed the subject, stepping in front of her to cut at her fringe: "How old are you anyway?"

She crossed her ankles together. "Seventeen. How old are _you_?"

_She looks so much younger than that, _he wondered. He mentally shrugged and then scrunched his facial features together as if he were deep in thought.

"Uh, twenty-six," he answered.

She giggled. "No, I mean, how old are you _really_?"

"I'm not certain. My land and people have been here for several hundred years, but I've been around much longer than that. You'd probably have better luck asking a historian that question."

Her gaze locked onto his, never wavering, even when some of her hair fluttered pass her eyelashes and into her lap. No specific emotion twisted her features; she merely stared, listening to some distant speaker. She didn't even blink, so naturally Francis grew a little concerned.

"Mada—Jeanne?" He stopped cutting her hair and leaned back.

No response—nothing to indicate that she heard him.

"Jeanne? Are you okay?"

Light came back to her eyes and she noticed his puzzled state. "I'm sorry, did you say something?"

He raised an eyebrow at her. "Yes, are you alright? You were unresponsive for a moment just now."

She frowned. "Was I?"

He nodded slowly.

Her eyes then fell to the severed locks gathered in her lap. "It must've been my voices."

Francis hesitated for a long while before speaking again: "Your…voices?" It sounded more like a statement rather than a question.

She glanced back up at him. "Saint Margaret and Saint Catherine speak to me sometimes. They tell me things about my mission and what will happen—events and people I need to prepare for. Apparently only I can hear their words and they only appear whenever I'm alone; that's why I call them 'my voices'. I can hear them clearer when bells play somewhere. I've heard them a few times now, although I've been told that I lose consciousness whenever they speak to me."[2]

He chewed on his bottom lip. "I see. May I ask you what it is they said just now?"

As if she were worried the absentminded horses might spill this secret, she peered around the quiet stables, tugged on her cloak, and then eyed him curiously, whispering, "The saints say that our journey to Chinon will be successful; no harm shall come our way and we will arrive at our destination within eleven days."

She reached out to grasp his right arm, but once her hand brushed against his empty sleeve, she jolted back, covering her mouth with her fingers as though she just verbally insulted him and immediately regretted it.

"I'm so sorry," she whimpered.

"Ah, there's no need to apologize." He gently touched her forearm, a sad smile forming his torn lips. "You've done nothing wrong, I promise."

Her gaze lingered on his cold, pale hand. She then placed her fingers over his knuckles, a kind warmth spreading among his skin and running through his veins. He felt this same warmth before when Jeanne kissed his hand the day he arrived in Vaucouleurs. It was like something lifted from his shoulders, a kind of weight that Atlas would've appreciated. He didn't ponder over it at the time, but now he thought it to be strange yet he didn't necessarily wish for her to let go.

"For now, please don't tell anyone about my voices," she pleaded softly, "or what they say to me. I am aware of how…unusual this seems, and people will think ill of me despite my honesty. They won't understand, so I would be very grateful if you kept quiet about this. Don't lie, just don't mention it."

Here she was, bestowing way too much trust in him again. Everything about her and the situation was odd; he knew he should've asked more questions or lightly declined her proposal, yet he really didn't want to disappoint her. And so, he looked her in the eye, squeezed her arm, and murmured softly, "You have my word, my dear."

She smiled sweetly. "Thank you so much, Monsieur Francis! You're very kind; I'll see to it that no harm will come your way." She pulled back her arm and combed through her fringe. "Are you nearly finished with my hair?"

He exhaled quietly in defeat. He should've known it would fly over her head like a bird high in the sky. It was like flirting with a brick wall, but he knew he'd more than likely try again as was his nature. For now, however, he gripped the scissors and continued snipping away. "Yes, almost."

Several minutes passed before he laid down the shears, stepping back to inspect his work. One would say that, for a one-armed man, he excelled at the activity, but according to Francis—a strict perfectionist—he could only see the flaws in it. The completed look was supposed to be a bowl-cut right above the ears with a thin undercut. He spotted a few split ends and he wished to shave more off her undercut but was afraid of nicking her if he got too close. An hour had passed, but he felt that he needed more time.

Jeanne, noticing Francis's hesitation, shrugged off her cloak, sending clumps of hair to the floor. She shook her head wildly. "How do I look?"

He smirked crookedly, ruffling her hair. "Like a young man at war."

She returned the smile. "Great! Exactly how I wanted it." She hopped down from the barrel and collected the brush and scissors. "Thank you again, Monsieur Francis! I appreciate everything you're doing for me."

"Just Francis is fine, and you're very welcome. I only hope that you're fully satisfied."

"Of course I am. Why wouldn't I be?" Her eyes drifted to her blue skirt, mumbling to herself, "I should ask Noël for a pair of trousers—we're similar in structure, so hopefully they'll fit me. I must be rid of these skirts if I am to ride a horse properly or run without tripping. What a nonsense dresses are!" She glanced up at him. "I'll see you at training tomorrow."

She went to walk pass him, but he called out her name before she got too far. When she turned to face him again, he realized just how wonderfully strange this young maiden was. She was very talkative yet a great listener for the last hour, and now she was determined to tackle the day ahead, unafraid of the challenges she may endure. That haircut seemed to fit her well, compared to the many "brave and noble" knights that sported the style as well. _How strange indeed for a pretty little thing like her_.

Francis rubbed the back of his neck as he uttered, "Do you see yourself as a man rather than a woman?"

Jeanne gave him a funny look. "No, I don't. God made me as a woman and a woman I shall stay. I'm only wearing trousers and cutting my hair so others can hear me better."[3]

He pondered over her response but was quickly distracted by the little wave Jeanne offered him.

"Thank you again, Francis!" She then hurried out of the stables and he swore he saw a faint blush bloom across her cheeks before she turned away.

He stood there, staring after her, thinking about her. He replayed his actions in his head from the last hour: laughing at her jokes, observing her reactions to his own, occasionally running his fingers through her hair just because he could, squeezing her arm while looking deep into those big brown eyes of hers. They were all telltale signs that he was growing an interest in her; he did those things before to several other men and women before her, so this was no foreign feeling to him. Though it was dangerous, he always fell a little bit in love with everyone he met. It was so easy, he couldn't help it—there was so much beauty within humans. He knew where this would end up: he'd fall for her, she would or would not feel the same, she'd leave one day, and he feel the heartbreak all over again. It was routine for him, a painful one, yes, but he couldn't stop it from happening.

He unconsciously slipped in another grin. _How strange indeed. _

* * *

[1] Because Joan had armor and clothes custom-made for her, we know her body type. She was said to be 5 feet 2 inches (1.58 meters) tall and was shapely or a little muscular. She was a countryside girl, so it would make sense if she was dark-skinned/sunburnt and carried some muscle for working out in the sun all day. There are many accounts from witnesses who hung around her often saying that she carried her weight well and didn't have too much of a problem bearing arms all the time. While on the track of her appearance, there are no existing portraits of her from around her time (excluding one doodle from a guy who never even met her), so we can't be too certain of what she looked like. But based on all sorts of records about her physical appearance, we can safely assume that she had large dark eyes, black or dark brown hair, a red birthmark behind her right ear, and short hair that ended right above her ears. Many men and women admitted she was pretty, but nothing spectacular or heavenly beautiful was described about her—I guess this means she was average-looking and with her hair cropped short, constantly wearing men's attire, and always had dirt or sweat dripping from her, she probably looked more like a man than she did a woman.

[2] The struggle to find the source of Joan's voices and visions of saints and angels has been a long one. Many people truly believed that she was telling the truth about them but there are several who've tried to diagnose her with some mental illness including bipolar disorder, epilepsy, and schizophrenia. Modern doctors have tried to figure her out, but it's nearly impossible to, considering she lived over 600 years ago. People during her time, however, were aware of mental disorders (although certainly not to the extent that we do now) and there are many reports that no one thought she suffered from any of them; her behavior does not match the typical behavior of some schizophrenics or bipolars and she was physically in great shape. There is a way, however, that doctors can be sure if Joan had epilepsy (which can cause auditory and physical hallucinations and seizures if severe) by testing her hair. Apparently there are red wax sealed letters that carry the imprint of her finger and a strand of her hair that have been lost since the French Revolution. If doctors can get their hands on her only surviving hair and run a DNA test on it, they can prove if she had genetic epilepsy or not. I'm curious what you guys have to say about Joan of Arc's voices: were they real or were they a part of a deeper problem?

[3] Some people claim that Joan of Arc was an early feminist, but sadly that is not the case. Joan was born into a man's world and she recognized that, which was one of the many reasons why she only wore men's clothing when she was in the army. The only time when she kinda fought for gender equality was when she strictly wanted to be called "the maiden", emphasizing the point that the English were losing to a young French girl (which is still something a feminist wouldn't do). She was also not one to question authority or the legitimacy of one's title. Charles VII wasn't exactly fit for king, but she did everything within her power to get him to the French throne. Joan morphed herself into the male-dominated society, not go against it or change it some way. She probably wouldn't be as open-minded and debatable as we are today—she was very strict and stubborn and only had one thing on her mind: to save France and carry out God's mission.


	4. Saddle Up

****Did anyone else see the American film "Little Women" and punched a fellow movie-goer when Louis Garrel (a very beautiful and talented French actor) showed up on screen? Bro thought I was crazy because Americans don't really watch foreign films like how other countries do and they didn't realize why I was happily bouncing in my seat. French movies are great if you like sad things like moi! Endings are always cliffhangers or unhappy and they tend to deal with psychological themes. I suggest "Ismael's Ghosts"—Louis's in that too! 3 **

**A quick hello to nicolft and thank you for sticking with me in "Memories of Ghosts" and "The Maiden"! I'm glad to have you here and I hope to keep on seeing you through the rest of Joan's adventures! **

**Hope you guys enjoy and have a happy new year! (You too, China, even though the rest of the world is a month behind!)** **

On the twenty-second of February, Francis, Jeanne, and ten other bodies geared up for the trip to Chinon and meet the awaiting Dauphin.

They weren't completely covered with armor but had enough on to move around easily in while protecting themselves for any possible arrows or knives. Bags were stuffed with herring and bread, and flasks were full of water or wine. Small knives were passed around and tucked into whatever available space they had; short swords were nestled in sheaths that hung from their sides. All received a long cloak and a blanket as well—it was February after all and one could only imagine of what the winter month could bring for them.

Jeanne was glad that this day finally arrived; she was finally moving along with her mission. Her friends and brothers were just as excited as her. From the shadows of the looming buildings, she watched them arm themselves with these necessities, marvel at the very real swords in their hands, and speak of the future animatedly with her uncle Paul. She also noticed the lingering dread on the faces of the veterans nearby. These men hardly spoke and their motions were slow like they were moving underwater. She acknowledged their fear, but she knew things had to change—it couldn't be good to be this anxious all the time.

Her eyes flittered over to Sieur France—or, "just Francis". He wore a frown too and he wasn't much faster than his comrades, but he didn't look scared. Not much emotion stirred his features; he was like some machine, only moving when he was being told. It was a horrible thing, really, to see such a beautiful and important person so stiff, so expressively damaged.

She did the final button on her doublet and squared her shoulders. _Not only must I protect him from all bodily harm, but I must save that poor man's soul. _

She lightly jogged over to him once she saw him struggling to latch the saddle together for his steed.

"Do you need assistance?" She didn't wait for a reply, but instead snatched the belt from his hand and tightened it around the belly of the animal.

"Yes, if you can locate a spare arm and sew it onto my shoulder, that'd be wonderful," he huffed. He didn't even try to argue with her; he let her fasten it as he pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly frustrated with himself.

Pity swelled within her chest. She was aware of how he loathed this disability of his (although he could perform all sorts of tasks very well, quite literally, single-handedly) and wondered if sewing a limb in its place would actually erase the problem. Is that how immortals recovered? Are they made up of different parts from different people throughout history? She shivered at the thought and decided to ask about another subject.

"Do not fear this journey to Chinon," she whispered. "Remember what I told you? Our voyage will be quick and harmless."

"I remember." He looked up at her, stretching out a thin, tight, and toothless grin. "It would be more effective if you told that to some of these soldiers. Their fears may get the best of them later on."

She hesitated, but only for a moment. "I have complete faith in you, Francis, for I know you'll do all you can with remarkable performance. I carry no doubts for you. I only pray that you put complete faith in me as well."

He wasn't given enough time to react, for her attention was quickly drawn towards the large hand playfully ruffling her hair.

"I still can't believe you cut your hair, Jeanette!" she heard Jean's chirpy voice exclaim. "And in the middle of winter too! The back of your neck will grow stiff with the cold."

She swatted away his hand. "You have the same haircut as I. If anything, we're both fools."

"And Noël's clothes fit you well," Pierre added, strolling up behind Jean. He then peered over his shoulder and called out, "Oh, Noël, what's it like knowing that you possess the figure of a girl?"

As snickers drippled among the boys, Noël pouted and replied stubbornly, "I have no such thing! It is Jeanne who possesses the body of a man! You've seen her arms—she can lift Edmond in the palm of her hand."

She rolled her eyes, her gaze happening to land on her uncle's gentle face. Her hands clasped over his once he reached out to cup her face.

"This is it, Jeanne," he said with a sad smile. "Your mission is coming together, just like you said." A pause ensued. "Please, _please _be careful."

"I will, I promise." She placed a tender kiss on his left palm. "Tell Father, Mother, Jacques, and everyone else we miss them dearly and we will return as soon as we can. Mother, I'm sure, is terribly worried about us."

"Of course she is. You children mean the world to her; but I'll make sure to pass on your message."

"Thank you."

He then kissed both her cheeks and squeezed her shoulders before doing the same to Jean and Pierre. It was at this time that Robert de Baudricourt stepped forward, his hard gaze locked onto hers. She met him with a raised chin and a tiny smirk.

"Oui, Monsieur?"

The captain tugged at his cloak's buckle, inhaling sharply and pursing his chapped lips. She waited for him to mutter some prideful remark or comment on new uncertainties, but was surprised to hear him say "Go, and come what may. Bring salvation and hope to the country of France once again."

She blinked and once she saw the honesty in his eyes, her own sincerity shone through her words: "It is my life's mission. I will succeed."

She stuck out her hand for him to shake and, after a brief delay, he did. She then turned toward Francis who was now perched atop his horse, looking down at her with a quirked eyebrow and slight grin. The corners of her lips tilted up; apparently they were both pleasantly surprised.

Jeanne and the rest of the group climbed onto their assigned steeds, steadying the saddle, adjusting their armor. Once she sat comfortably upon Isabelle's back, she observed the small yet gathering crowd that she hadn't considered before. It was a little bigger than the one that surrounded the garrison almost two weeks ago, when France's personification and his men returned from war. And here they were, crawling back into the belly of the beast with new blood pushing them onward. She expected to see the same anxious glances dwelling amongst the crowd like before, but there was something else stirring there.

She sensed curiosity, skepticism, confusion. She noticed old men frowning, young wives gawking, and little boys and girls shoving through to get a closer look at her. Memories flooded her mind like the high tide of a river—she remembered being that small (it seemed like a lifetime ago) and running headfirst into the crowd to hear the messenger deliver updates of the war. She wanted to be a bringer of good news, of high hopes, and of heavenly peace, something those solemn heralds never were. So, she looked into the eyes of the crowd and declared in a proud voice, "Carry no fear, people of France! All in God's name, we shall go forth and bring back the happiness that has been robbed from our country nearly a hundred years ago. Cast all your doubts aside and place your faith in the Lord our God; only then will all things be possible."

No reaction but the shifting of feet and a hefty cough near the back emitted from the crowd. Her gaze fell back upon those wide-eyed children. She sent them a smile and a little wave to which they happily sent the gestures back.

Uncle Paul watched his brave niece and nephews ride on without so much as a backward glance; Jeanne knew he didn't mind though. After all, one could not move forward if one kept looking behind.

The soldiers followed the gravel path that led through Vaucouleurs and beyond its borders, but once the town was out of sight, they strayed from the trail and continued their journey through the surrounding woods, so they could be hidden from view of any passerby (Armagnac, Burgundian, or English). Jeanne was suddenly grateful for the horse-riding lessons; the land wasn't exactly flat and Isabelle had to step around large rocks, stretched tree roots, and trudge up and down low hills. She held onto the reins and swerved her hips along with Isabelle's, so she'd remain balanced upon her steed.

Winter resettled itself rapidly among the travelers; they all threw on their cloaks and tugged on their hoods. Small chatter accompanied the sound of hooves clopping and the wind sweeping by, most coming from her friends. Noël was being his usual friendly self and egging on the veterans for another war story while Pierre and Jean wondered how Jacques and their parents were doing. She noticed Edmond nervously glancing over his shoulder every now and then, yet whenever Louis reached out to comfort him, he'd shrug him off bitterly as though he were the one who asked for a hug.

Once again, her eyes naturally landed on Francis. He and his walnut brown steed were a few paces ahead of her—she could only distinguish him from the other cloaked figures around them by his long golden locks flying back with the wind and his sickly pale hand loosely holding the leather reins. She was about to lightly kick her horse's sides and gallop toward him, but the soldier beside her caught her attention.

His head was bowed and his hands were clasped and his curly black beard trembled with each word he whispered. His body was stiff despite how his horse moved with all its weight. She couldn't make out what he was saying, yet she patiently waited until he grew quiet, a heavy exhale signaling the end of his soliloquy.

"Were you praying just now?" she asked.

The man blinked at her. "Yes," he answered hesitantly.

She nodded. "That's good. We need to have daily conversations with God to strengthen our relationship Him. Do you pray often?"

Another pause. "Whenever I am fearful, I pray, which is quite often."

Her heart shriveled like an autumn leaf upon the sight of the old soldier's brokenness. His face was white with fear, his eyes wide with alertness. He shared similar features as Francis, although nothing to that extent. At least this man contained some emotion about the situation at hand.

She leaned closer to him (all while keeping a steady grasp on Isabelle). "What is your name, monsieur?"

"Bertrand Poulengy, mademoiselle."

"Monsieur Poulengy, please don't harm yourself by thinking such horrendous thoughts. If you believe in our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, then there's nothing to worry about. Everything will be as the Lord commands it, and He is on our side. He will always be with us, I promise you."

He merely stared at her, puzzling, wondering. Many have been giving her this look lately and it was beginning to irritate her, so she pursed her lips and went to start over, but Bertrand mumbled out "I wish I could see the world like how you see it" before she could.

The comment momentarily threw her off guard and she frowned at the sad yet exasperated demeanor he carried. _There is much to be done about the distressing cloud that hangs around these men. Not only must I heal Francis's body and mind, but also the souls of his people. After all, Francis Bonnefoy and France are separate identities, are they not? _

Jeanne felt her face twist into some desperate plead but made sure to keep her voice as gentle and soft as possible. "I see it like you do—I see its darkness, its hate, its unmerciful coldness. I cry because of it and I will never understand how a man can kill his brother so easily. But I must always remind myself of its wonders and of the beautiful things God has given us. I was sent here to keep the beautiful things safe, to help them bloom. Do not associate yourself with the darkness; let love and light conquer your mind. You're already defying the darkness by leading me to Chinon when fear is pulling you back. You're braver than you think and you should recognize that."

Bertrand was speechless for a while and Jeanne wondered if he was even listening. She was then surprised once again when he uncurled his spine, looked her straight in the eye, and whispered in a shaky yet powerful voice, "I will do my absolute best to get you to the Dauphin quickly and safely. You must tell him your wisdom and help save this nation from utter destruction."

She could see the fear and boldness in those eyes and knew he was telling the truth. With a wide grin, she nodded her head and promised, "I shall do just that. I only ask for your best, monsieur."

He returned the nod. She was about to inquire of his military life—how long had he been serving his country? Did he attend the Battle of the Herring? What enticed him to join the army?—but her attention was stolen once more by somebody else.

Her head snapped toward Noël like a hawk when he said, "So how _did _you lose your arm?"

She found his curly mass of black hair up front, right next to Francis. Francis's back still faced her, so she couldn't tell if he was annoyed by the question or not. Inquisitiveness still had its hold on her, focusing entirely on the exchange.

Francis had turned his head to Noël and then straight ahead. "A very curious young man, you are. Are you asking for your friend or for your own entertainment?"

Noël waved his hand as if he were swatting away a flea. "Oh, Edmond's forgotten all about your arm ever since we left Vaulcouleurs. Poor boy's been hallucinating and claiming that each tree is an Englishman. And don't think of it as entertaining purposes, but as educational. I can prevent what happened to you from happening to myself."

He finished his argument with a little nod and a little smirk.

Francis paused before responding quietly: "I suppose you'll keep asking about it until I tell you, no?"

Noël nodded again.

She listened to him sigh lowly. "Alright then."

He tugged on his cloak and then stated indifferently, "It was at Azincourt."[1]

That was all he had to say to hush all around him. Everyone knew what that meant and he could've left it at that as a complete answer. Dread gripped her heart as she covered her mouth with her hand, suppressing a gasp. She could only imagine the terrors and the pain he encountered on that fateful day (her imagination couldn't go very far—she'd startle herself out of her own bloody thoughts). Her eyes darted to Bertrand unexpectedly and she found another anxious expression pull at his facial features. He most likely already heard this story before or, even worse, was there himself.

Francis noted Noël's frozen stare and silent lips. "Ah, so you've heard of it? Then you should have some idea of what happened brewing in your mind."

Jeanne was aware of the rare and terrified silence hovering over Noël like some deep, dark cloud. She saw him gape at Francis's vacant sleeve and shake his head slightly. "But that battle was nearly fifteen years ago. Do you mean to tell me that you've been without a limb for that long?"

He nodded. "Normally my body regenerates after I'm wounded—all scars are healed and all body parts are replaced. Yet, depending on how damaging it is to the nation or the monarchy itself, it may take longer for me to recover. So, as you can see, Azincourt ruined much of this country."

He hesitated before continuing: "I suffered other injuries during battles as well, but I received this and a great tear in my left shoulder when I was taken as a temporary prisoner by the English. It was only a few hours, but it felt like years at the time. Their king ordered the slaughter of the other thousand French prisoners and I, held back by England's personification, watched them all die. He then proceeded to cut off sections of my right arm until it was no more, starting with the fingers, the hand, the elbow, and then the shoulder.[2] He went to slice my left arm at the shoulder, but he only got halfway deep before Sieur Scotland knocked him aside. He and a small band of Scottish soldiers distracted England long enough to help me and any other survivors escape from his clutches. All those brave men died, however—only Sieur Scotland and I made it out of there alive. I owe that man all that I have."

He then peered at Noël's ashen face and asked him almost coldly, "So how can you prevent that from happening again?"

Noël looked ahead into the labyrinth of winter trees—he, like Edmond, stared at their slender yet daunting trunks as if they were the bodies of Englishmen and their long, twisted branches were a bow and arrow. Jeanne, however, would not submit to the same fear that these men were falling into. She furiously blinked away the tears that were forming in the corner of her eyes and then answered Francis in an almost angry manner:

"We'll prevent it with love!"

She heard armor shift around and felt heads turn toward her outburst, but she kept her eyes trained on Francis's back, glaring into his left shoulder. He didn't move but he did mutter, "What?"

"For the love of God and all of humanity, we will avoid as much torture and deaths as we can. The English are clearly full of hate; they can only be knocked down if we conquer their minds with love and kindness."

Her country—her poor, beloved country—peeked over his missing shoulder at her. There was doubt in those lovely blue orbs of his as if it were impossible to love an Englishman.

"You cannot force someone to love you," he uttered.

"I'm not asking for that," she countered, staring back at him with hope, praying that it'd somehow transfer over to him. "I don't want them to love or admire or respect me. Once they know who I am and what I've come to do, I know they will hate me and try to be rid of me. But I will love them either way because that's what Jesus wants us to do. We are all brothers and sisters and we mustn't fight so cruelly with one another. Love conquers all, love will save us. And if they insist on being bitter with hatred for all eternity, then let them suffer so much and for so long that they wish they were dead, but not give it to them. They can die when they're absolutely miserable and have nothing or no one to live for." She stopped herself and shook her head at her own words. "Well, as long as God permits it anyways."

The stares intensified around her, their judgements and inquiries boring into the back of her head. Her eyes quickly flicked to Noël who was looking at her with a small but meaningful smile and it lifted her courage some. She looked back at Francis and he appeared sadder than before. His eyebrows were tilted slightly upward and the gash that replaced his upper lip seemed to tilt downward in a frown. Jeanne could hardly stand the sight and offered a little smile to him.

"My good country, I promise to protect you until the end of my days, no matter what."

The tiniest of emotion flashed across his eyes. For a moment, they weren't dark and empty like the black sky before a great storm, but were a royal summer night, peaceful and warm. The remnants of his lips twitched into a little grin and it was sincere. Jeanne's smile broadened at the sight. _His beauty shines even more when he's happy, _she believed.

"As will I," Bertrand piped up.

Jeanne and the others shifted to look at him. He was still afraid, she could tell, but he assured Francis with a stronger voice, "After all, that is why I'm here." He quickly glanced at her and she nodded encouragingly.

One by one, the other soldiers rededicated their lives to the same cause, their declarations both loud and quiet. Jeanne's heart soared with pride. She knew she couldn't do God's will alone (it was much too large for her to carry out by herself) so it was a pleasant relief to have some company behind her goal.

She glimpsed back at Francis, but his back was already turned.

They traveled for several hours until the night swallowed them whole. Deep were the woods and so cold was the air that Francis decided that then was as good as any to set up camp. He sent a couple men out to gather firewood while others spread out thin blankets upon the hard ground and passed around pieces of bread and flasks of wine. (Jeanne did nibble on some bread but stuck with her flask of water.) A fire was ignited as soon as the soldiers came back with chopped lumber and they all crowded around it, numb fingers reaching for the flickering heat.

Jeanne sat between Bertrand and Jean; she asked the veterans their backstories, what drove them to take up arms and join the army. Devastation and duty were a common theme among their stories: the English ransacked their hometown, families brutally murdered, betrayal amongst friends. Some admitted they'd rather die as soldiers than as farmers or bakers or bartenders while some confessed they felt safer in the army than in their own homes.

She sensed her brother tense up beside her; she glanced up at him. He and Pierre stared at the soldiers before them, faces fallen, confidence shaken. Hearing of all the horrors that not only these men witnessed but their own country as well must have caught up to them. These war stories were becoming real and not just something to gawk over, for here they were, on their way to the Dauphin to properly enlist in the military and experience the same happenings as those very soldiers. Perhaps they just now realized how lucky they were—they had a house, a family, _an entire village _to go back to.

Her hand naturally draped over Jean's knuckles as she tried morphing the worried into the brave. "I am terribly sorry for all that you've suffered. I understand why one would be fearful to be anywhere near an Englishman, but we must overcome this panic in order to win the war. Place your faith in Jesus and, I promise you all, He will stay by your side through all that you may encounter. Please, do not submit to fear; nothing good can come from such a place."

Jean squeezed her hand in appreciation and the old soldiers looked at her with wide eyes and tiny smiles, murmuring acknowledgements and guarantees of stronger hearts. Jeanne's gaze fell upon Francis once more who sat across the fire from her. In the dim orange glow, she saw him stare into the shimmering flames while absentmindedly cupping his stump of a shoulder. Her eyebrows crinkled, her lips frowned. What did he see in that low fire? Were the demons of war and darkness tearing apart his mind, stealing away his ability to see all that was worth fighting for?

Before she could do or say anything to vanquish these devils, Francis volunteered himself to take first watch; he stood up and shuffled over to a nearby oak tree without another word. She stared after him until Bertrand offered her a sliver of pickled herring.

Sleep eventually overpowered them and Jeanne had made sure to secure every button and tie on her person before snuggling in close to Jean. It was difficult to fall asleep and to stay asleep. She awoke to the sound of the fire popping; she spotted a glowing ember settle in the space between her and Bertrand.

As quietly as she could, she sat up and poked at the shrunken fire with one of its sticks. She shivered and huddled closer, opening her palms to what little heat there was. Her eyes scanned the sleeping bodies surrounding the fire. She counted—all but France himself were present. She glared into the night. At first, all she could see were the naked oaks and the sleepy steeds resting against said trees but, upon closer inspection, she noticed a figure hunched against one of the oaks further away.

Her legs instantly moved in that direction and they only stopped when a loud cracking sound erupted from beneath her feet. She froze, looked down at the ground, and saw a long stick snapped in two beneath her boot.

"You should watch where you're going, Jeanne d'Arc," came Francis's familiar voice, quiet yet pleasant. "There be wild beasts in these woods."

She glanced back up, but he had not moved from his spot nor was he looking at her. She paused before slowly (yet surely) making her way toward her country.

She found him with his strong chin in the palm of his hand and his sheathed sword leaning against the tree. His eyelids drooped but, once she came into his field of vision, he rubbed his eyes thoroughly and grinned sleepily at her.

"You're awake early," he remarked.

"How long have you been keeping watch?"

"Uh, a few hours I suppose?"

"Let me take over; you need to rest."

"Ah, I appreciate your concern, but I can carry on just fine."

She huffed. "Your eyes are heavy with sleep. Take my spot between Jean and Bertrand and I'll keep watch until sunrise."

"I am fine, Jeanne. I do this often during expeditions. Thank you for the offer, nevertheless."

She stood there, glowering, frowning, waiting for him to give up and do what was right for _him—_Francis Bonnefoy. But he didn't yield; he merely gazed at her with that drowsy smirk of his. Eventually she snorted in frustration, exclaimed "Well, we're both going to lose precious sleep then!", and plopped down next to him.

Another chill ran down her spine, so she clutched her elbows and inched closer to Francis until their sides were pressed against each other. A visible cloud slipped through her lips as she glanced up at the trees. Of course, she wasn't worried about wild animals (or Englishmen) showing up anytime soon, for she fully trusted Saint Margaret and Saint Catherine when they told her the trip to Chinon would be swift and secure. She had no fear, but Francis still had some, it seemed—even after she informed him of who her sources were.

She shook her head. "You are a stupid man."

He chuckled. "So I've been told."

"Do you know why you're stupid?"

"I think you're going to tell me either way."

"It's because you refuse to do what is good for yourself. I am giving you help—_God Almighty _is giving you help—and yet you still cannot see all that is being offered to you."

He exhaled lowly and she sensed his body rise and fall with the sigh. She was then aware of how small he really was. He seemed bigger, sturdier, but now she wondered if they weighed the same.

_Perhaps it's the heavy cloak and armor that hide this_, she thought.

"God hasn't done much for me nor my people for many years," she heard Francis mutter, almost bitterly. "He hasn't done anything to help end this war nor ease the suffering of any living French citizen. Pardon my suspicions, but I'm having a difficult time believing in what you say."

Her shoulders slumped, along with her heart. She already knew he wasn't following her claims (just like many others she met throughout her journey thus far) yet his disbelief hurt the most. She was here for him and the Dauphin, so his opinion of her mattered deeply, unlike most.

_He needs me now more than ever. _

"I also can't believe your parents just let their seventeen-year-old daughter waltz off to a place unbeknownst to them with her uncle, brothers, and friends only to enter the bloodiest war this nation has ever faced." He was getting impatient; she could feel his arm stiffen in uncontainable anger. He glared at her. "Are you positive that's what happened?"

She glared back at him. "Of course it is. All those very people told you so. Why do you deny me?"

"Oh, it's just quite impossible is all. I've never heard a parent willingly do such a thing for one of their own children."

"My parents have raised me to be a good Christian woman and that's exactly what I'm doing. I love them unconditionally, I've done everything they said, I've—" She suddenly stopped as an unwanted memory washed over her.

Francis noticed her unexpected shift in demeanor and grinned. "You've followed every little thing they said, non?"

She ignored the stupid smirk on the stupid man's face and peered at the empty trees again. "All except one thing."

It happened last year and, as far as she knew, it all was in the past and no hurt or anger lingered, not in her, her parents, or Edmond. She figured there was no harm in telling Francis; it might actually make him trust her more, knowing she wasn't perfect, not by a long shot.

"When I was sixteen," she started, "my father tried to arrange a marriage. Between me and Edmond."[3]

She sensed the hesitation and saw Francis's blond head turn to a sleeping Edmond by the fire and back to her. She was annoyed by the gesture as if he _also _couldn't believe someone would actually want to marry her. It was a while before he foolishly said, "What?"

She huffed and replied, "I didn't want it; marriage was the last thing on my mind and I believed my father didn't have the right to chose that destiny for me. I went to my village's judge and told him what I believed and he agreed with me, so he broke off the engagement. But that was the only thing I disagreed with my parents on and no hatred or crime arisen from it."

Another irritating pause swam between them before Francis spoke again: "What did Edmond have to say about it?"

Her gaze then landed on the boy beside the father, sleeping soundly between two soldiers whose names she didn't know. He looked like a large boulder embedded deep in the dirt—he had his thin grey blanket draped over himself and she could only really see his bulky shoulder and a wisp of his dark hair flapping in the breeze.

"He didn't say much during that time," she admitted. "He wasn't in love with me, like I wasn't in love with him, but I know he loved me enough to let me walk away to which I'm grateful for." She looked back at Francis. "That's what love is, you know. You want that person's happiness more than anything in the world, even if that means you can't be a part of it. I was happy by myself, and Edmond realized that, so he let me go. Same with my father; he holds no grudges."

"So why he is here with you now?"

"Because he wanted to be. I know how much he's dreamed about being in the army and so, because it would make him happy, I let him follow, come what may." She then grabbed his hand and held it tight between both of hers, transferring what little warmth she had over to him.

"Know why I tell you this of myself," she said to him as she squeezed his limp hand. "I want you to trust me and I promise you I will do anything to get you back your soul. I have already fought my way to get where I am now and I will continue to do so until my mission is complete. I am not afraid, I was born to do this."

She blew hot air onto his numb fingers and rubbed her thumb over his knuckles. No words were exchanged between them throughout the rest of the cold night, but he eventually curled his fingers around her hand and squeezed back.

* * *

[1] The Battle of Agincourt is considered one of the greatest military successes in English and world history. On October 25, 1415, the overwhelming French army of 20,000 met up a little more than 5,000 English soldiers at Agincourt (Azincourt in French). The battlefield was 1,000 yards of open field with two large patches of woods surrounding them. English King Henry V had lost half of his men to disease and battle-wounds prior to the battle and things were not looking good to the English. Luckily for them, hundreds English and Welsh archers carried the famous longbow, which was a great turning point in military history and allowed them to move about freely and shoot from long distances. The French and Scottish soldiers were weighed down by their heavy armor and when they were running to the English, they were so packed tight they couldn't even raise their arms to strike a blow. The French and Scottish were easily taken down so quickly and thousands of Frenchmen were taken prisoners. Due to lack of communication and Henry's rational fear of losing to the massive French army, he believed they were still in danger when in reality the French were too exhausted to keep up anymore. He ordered the prisoners to be slaughtered instead of being held for ransom which was common and much more humane at the time. Anywhere from 100 to 600 Englishmen died while 6,000 French were taken. Henry V was praised as a military hero and considered to be the true heir to the French throne to everyone in Europe (besides France of course).

[2] Sometimes the English and French could be very brutal towards one another during the Hundred Years War. The French would cut off the first two fingers of English archers so they would never be able to use the bow. This resulted in the English flipping off two fingers during an English victory to the French, signaling their win and rubbing it in their faces how they couldn't cut them off. (Thus the middle finger or the act of flipping someone off was born.) The English, when searching the battlefield for any surviving Frenchmen, would sometimes slice off their arms and legs and leave them there to die, the Frenchman eventually dying of blood loss over a long period of time. As you'd imagine, this was a very slow and painful death and could be why the French were so terrified of coming across an Englishman.

[3] Joan was betrothed to a "local youth" for reasons unknown. Her father informed her of his decision and she at once refused the arrangement. When she received her mission from Michael the Archangel at thirteen, she vowed to remain a virgin and commit herself to Christ—something similar to what nuns, priests, and popes have to agree to. The dispute ended up at court and Joan singlehandedly won the case, breaking off the engagement. She was her own lawyer and it's amazing how a sixteen-year-old girl gained the respect and admiration of almost her entire village, back when women were expected to stay out of men's affairs and simply do as they're told. This shows Joan's capability of defending herself and attacking with words, an ability she would continue to use in her military career.


	5. A Word with His Highness

****America's 2020 election is coming up this November, which means I've already been bombarded with phone calls, TV commercials, and awkward conversations at retail stores about who's gonna take over this bitch. I'm sorry, Alfred! I'll make sure to do my homework and research wisely before making up my mind. **

**Anyway, let's totally break France's heart all over again ****?********

It was just as she said: they arrived in Chinon within eleven days without any difficulties. Francis was, of course, greatly surprised and, as the day came nearer, he grew anxious. _This seriously can't be, _he remembered thinking, eyeing the surrounding woods for any predators. _There's no way that specific predicament can possibly become true. How did she know? Are those voices real? Did God really send her? Who is she exactly? _

He was just as taken aback as Jeanne was once they reached the city's gates, although for a completely different reason.

Once the heavily armed soldiers stationed at the bridge entering Chinon recognized the grisly appearance of Francis, they greeted him with worried looks and nervous questions. "Is that you, Sieur France?" "Where have you been all this time?" "What brings you here?"

He, dumbfounded by Jeanne's accurate prophecy, responded with wide eyes and a slow tongue. "Yes, it is I." "I've been around." "I have here Jeanne d'Arc and her friends from Domrémy. Captain Robert de Baudricourt of Vaucouleurs should have sent the Dauphin a letter, informing him of our arrival."

The guards skimmed through the small crowd, searching for the only girl. When they finally realized that she was right next to Francis the entire time, they blinked at her unexpected masculinity, clearly confused.

Just as one of them turned back to him and asked "What did you say her name was again?", a young esquire clad in royal armor came galloping with his black stallion across the bridge.

"Sieur France! Mademoiselle d'Arc!"

The armored steed slowed to a stop in front of them as the boy stared, his eyes curious, his mouth anxious. "I'm here to escort you to the Château de Chinon," he told them. "Because it is now evening and I'm sure you're all very tired from your journey, please get some rest for the night. As soon as daylight breaks, I will inform the Dauphin of your arrival."

Francis thanked him and nudged his horse after the esquire. Everyone else trotted along; Jeanne, however, seemed hesitant. She followed still, but something hung on her lips—Francis figured she'd want to go speak with Charles now, for time was precious in war. He saw her whip her head around, observing the faces of the soldiers before she cast a glance on him. She then let the words go and rode the rest of the way in silence.

The city was quiet, haunted. What few citizens lingered under the watercolor sky merely glimpsed at them before going on about their business. Soldiers and knights littered the streets, however, each armed to the teeth. The roads and buildings were in decent shape, and he even spotted a few French flags hanging around the city, the golden fleur-de-lis practically glowing against its midnight blue background. It shouldn't have been too surprising, considering that Touraine was the only province Charles still owned—everything else in France was controlled by the Burgundians or the English. Chinon was one of the very few cities that still publicly showed French patriotism.

His droopy eyes settled on Jeanne beside him. She was gawking at everything in sight from the tall and wide buildings to the green pine trees towering over them all. Wonder and admiration crossed her features; this was most likely the largest city she'd ever visited.

She was quite adorable, Francis believed—he couldn't bite back his smile at the sight of her ajar mouth and unblinking eyes. It was always funny to see someone from the countryside experience city life for the first time (even small, cozy Chinon). Like how she was captivated with her surroundings, he was fascinated with her reactions. There was more in her eyes besides inquisitiveness and imagination—there was hope, bravery, willpower.

She was overflowing with emotion and optimism, and he loved her for it.

They dismounted from their horses once they arrived at the Château de Chinon. It looked the same since Francis last seen it over a year ago. Its stone structure—yellowed from three hundred years of wear—hovered over the city and pine trees. There wasn't much artistic or aesthetic splash to the architecture that usually adorned a king's castle. Charles's home was a large garrison: built only for necessities, shelter and warmth. There was no time nor safety to decorate the exterior of something that could be taken over.

As they walked across the bridge to the wooden double doors of the castle, he felt the tiny hand of Jeanne grasp at his elbow. He looked down at her. "Oui?"

"Where is the nearest church?" she asked.

He peered over his shoulder and into the city below. Even though he hadn't been in Chinon for awhile, he knew its pathways as if he still lived there.

He gestured towards a white building to the left with a narrow tower and arched windows. "Saint Agatha's church is right over there."

Her hold on him tightened. "Tomorrow is Sunday, a day of rest and worship. Will you come to mass with me?"

Francis hesitated. It'd been a long time since he attended mass (or practiced any religious form for that matter). As the years progressed, his faith became evanescent like an afternoon mist. He got angry at God, blaming Him for all that went wrong, for abandoning him during his greatest time of need. He cursed his creator and wished for death—he thought he deserved it at least but, of course, He wouldn't even grant him that.

It was safe to say that he wasn't on good terms with Christianity.

Jeanne took note of his silence and asked the same question again. "I would very much like it if you came. I think it would help you greatly."

There it was again: the comforting warmth that dawdled on his skin as she squeezed his arm, that bubbled in his chest as she smiled encouragingly at him. He usually associated this feeling with love, but even he thought how odd it was that he'd fallen so quickly and so deeply for this little rock, this mighty flower. Was the power of her aura too tempting or was it simply love at first sight? He did not know.[1]

Once again he submitted to this loving atmosphere of hers and smiled back. "If it pleases you, then I shall."

She beamed like the sun. "Excellent! I promise you won't regret it." She then turned toward her brothers behind them and declared, "Pierre, Jean, we're going to mass tomorrow."

With the turn of her head, Pierre rolled his eyes to the fading sky while Jean's shoulders slumped and his lips grumbled. Even Louis, Edmond, and Noël displayed some sort of silently annoyed feature. Francis chuckled at the situation. Jeanne played the role of a stubborn mother well—she always said the final word and the boys seemingly followed her every order, even if they were older, taller, or more experienced than her. He wondered if a dauphin was any different.

He remained focused on the warmth running through his veins, the source coming from the grip on his elbow that would not loosen. Because of this, he failed to realize his surroundings and was only snapped out of this trance when a familiar voice echoed his personification title three times as if chanting some frantic spell.

He blinked slowly and turned his head to the right. The long stone hallway and the narrow fleur-de-lis rug told him he was now inside the château (apparently he didn't notice the absence of wind, cold, or the ghostly residents of Chinon until he blinked back into existence). A few torches lined the walls, providing enough light for him to identify two figures standing at the end of the hall. He eventually recognized the strong Roman nose of Étienne de Vignolles, simply known as "la Hire",[2] and the thin unibrow of Jean de Dunois, the notorious Bastard of Orléans.

A wave of relief washed over him as the Bastard raised a hand in greetings while la Hire merely stared at him (but what else did he expect from him?). It's been a couple weeks since he saw either of them; they were powerful men and he'd hate to lose their spirits, too.

"Who are they?" Jeanne asked, quiet yet curious.

"Loyal friends to the French army. If you are to raise the siege at Orléans, you will be fighting alongside them." He glanced down at her. "I'm going to speak with them for a moment; go and get some rest. I'll meet you and the others tomorrow morning by the castle's entrance, d'accord?"

She hesitated, but eventually let go of his arm. Her eyes flicked to the generals and then back to him before looking ahead, following the band of weary soldiers down the hall (with another glimpse over her shoulder, of course).

He watched her until she rounded a corner; his gaze then switched to the Bastard and la Hire who were strolling toward him now. Francis winced at the way the Bastard hobbled over, his left foot practically dragging across the floor.

"My dear general," Francis greeted with a sad smile, "you have not rested since the Battle of the Herring because you move as if that arrow were still stuck in your leg."

The flashback weighed down on his shoulders like the heavy plate armor that was supposed to protect him. The Bastard, who was running toward the guarded walls of Orléans while pushing a cart full of herring, was speared by one of the many English arrows in his lower calf. He fell and the fish went flying; Francis's last sight of him was the empty wooden cart over his crouched body as arrows rained from above.

"Don't be a hypocrite, my dear nation," the Bastard teased, shaking a finger at him. "I know for a fact that you did the same. And, though I might as well be telling a bear not to hibernate during the winter season, don't worry about me. I'm healing each and every day."

"I'll try my best."

"It's awfully reassuring to see you again," he went on, patting his good shoulder affectionately. "Where did you go after the battle? I figured you'd come back to Chinon."

"I took some soldiers to Vaucouleurs and spoke with Sieur Robert de Baudricourt."

The Bastard raised his eyebrow in puzzlement. "Vaucouleurs? What's in Vaucouleurs besides that stubborn old man?"

Francis casted a sideways glance, pausing momentarily before quietly responding, "Not a lot. I just…felt the need to go there."

And it was true: something urged him to retreat there once things began to crumble at Orléans. At the time, he thought it would be better to hide in a smaller city than in the only province Charles still controlled, but, now with Jeanne's accurate prediction in mind, he speculated if it was something else entirely.

"Who was that boy?" la Hire asked, jerking his hairy chin down the hallway. "The one who was hanging onto you like some frightened little child?"

Even though he knew she was long gone by now, he peeked at the stone wall beside him as if she were still there.

"That was _Jeanne d'Arc_," Francis answered (he made sure to emphasize her feminine name). "I met her at Vaucouleurs; she was giving de Baudricourt a hard time and basically forced her way into the situation." He looked at the men before him. "She may be a child, but she certainly isn't frightened. She claims that God Almighty has commanded her to raise the siege of Orléans and crown Charles as king of France. She says she received this mission by Saint Margaret, Saint Catherine, and Saint Michael the Archangel themselves."

"Themselves?" The Bastard frowned. "As in person?"

La Hire snorted. "Ah, great. Sounds like some mad little girl ran away from home in hopes of joining the army. Is she from Vaucouleurs?"

"Domrémy. It's a few days journey from Vaucouleurs."

He gave the Bastard an annoyed look and complained, "Why do parents not look after their fucking children? This is war, not a fucking playground."

The Bastard peered at Francis. "What do you think, my lord?"

Francis shifted his weight onto one foot, but then quickly moved back once a stinging pain shot up his leg. He chose his next set of words carefully: "I believe that she's something worth discussing about. According to Captain de Baudricourt, Mademoiselle d'Arc apparently foresaw the events of the recent campaign before I arrived at Vaucouleurs's garrison. She even predicted your narrow escape from death, dear Sieur. Our 'stubborn old man' was so taken by her unexpected knowledge that he ordered me to train and accompany her to Chinon—possibly beyond. She also has lifted the spirits of many of my men during our travels which may not seem like much to the common man, but to the soldier, it means a great deal."

The Bastard and la Hire observed Francis thoughtfully. The Bastard nodded his head once and said, "She's certainly a mysterious figure. Are you going to speak with the Dauphin tomorrow morning?"

He shrugged. "Perhaps. I'll be attending mass in the morning; I'm not certain how long I'll stay."

At that, both generals blinked in bewilderment.

"But I thought you weren't a religious man," the Bastard noted, crossing his arms.

"I'm not. Mademoiselle d'Arc has requested that I attend the service with her. I don't expect much to come out of it."

"Ahh, now I understand." He smirked, glancing at la Hire, who was grinning as well.

Francis smirked back. "Trust me, it's not like that."

"Is this whore's preferred method of payment sending her clients to church?" La Hire barked out a laugh, throwing his head back and gripping his belly. "At least she has a sense of humor."

As the Bastard chuckled along, Francis bit his bottom lip uncomfortably. It felt wrong to talk about Jeanne like this. Her faith in the Catholic God was so strong that to even joke about her being a prostitute seemed almost blasphemous. So, he decided to stand up for her reputation.

"She lives her life in the way her creator wants her to. She is humble and kind and full of mercy. History has provided bishops, priests, and popes who have sinned more than this woman ever will.[3] Her heart is pure and it's been so long since I've encountered another so innocent and hopeful." He paused. "And you both know I haven't done anything like that since Azincourt."

Although it might have been a bit far-fetched, this was true. Ever since the absolute failure of Azincourt, Francis became more and more isolated, self-conscious over his physical situation. He flinched at every looking glass and each time was reminded of the losses that travelled by his side.

Whenever ladies slipped into camp at night, they would whisper to him sweetly, run their fingers through his hair, softly caress his skin. Because he was vain, he occasionally fell under their spells, but most of the time he'd take one look at himself and feel disgust bubble in his chest. He'd recoil at his missing limb, his vacant lips, the unravelling stitches that held his body in one piece. With each everlasting wound accompanied a battle lost, some dreadful remembrance of how worthless he was to his people. He never felt so ugly before in his life.

He would politely decline the offers these women gave and, if they persisted further, he'd become firmer in his decision (maybe even harsh at times). Taking compliments and having sex wouldn't lessen the burdens—nothing would be accomplished. In fact, it'd probably make him feel worse. This was the rule he had with himself: he could not give love without loving his own soul first.

His response, however, failed to persuade the Bastard and la Hire that he wasn't sleeping with the virgin girl. He then sighed hopelessly and excused himself from their presence, adding that he'd most likely see them Monday morning.

_I should go see Charles, _Francis thought to himself, _and discuss with him the details concerning Jeanne. He more than likely has questions and it'd be wise to prepare some sort of plan for the future. But I do not carry the spirit nor the intelligence that Jeanne does; it'll be best if she would answer to his many inquiries. Besides, I am much too tired to do much else. _

It didn't take long at all to find a wandering servant throughout the castle's halls. The old woman he met jolted at his appearance and Francis tried to not let it bother him. He instead plastered on a smile, gently introducing himself and asking where he could find a spare bedchamber. Hesitant yet obliged, the wrinkled lady nodded once and shuffled deeper into the castle; he followed closely.

Once presented with a room, Francis thanked the servant before going in. It was much nicer than other places he resided: it had four walls and a ceiling made of stone, a bed—its mattress jammed with straw—that sat on its own frame came with two pillows and a wool cover, it even had a small tapestry that hung near the far corner of the room.

He removed his cloak, boots, light armor, and doublet, keeping on his trousers and linen shirt. He sunk into the sheets, exhaling as he did so. His fingers absentmindedly fiddled with the stitches outlining his collarbone while his eyes roamed around the chamber. They took a closer look at the wall-hanging ahead—it was of Saint Augustine, bowing his head before a tree with his face in his hands.[4] He stared at the Roman man questioning his faith, his entire existence; he couldn't help but wonder to himself_,_ _Will something change? _

He gazed at the tapestry until sleep overcame him.

Francis awoke to the sound of bells.

His eyelids peeled open. He was granted with the same sight of poor Saint Augustine hanging upon the wall. Drowsiness still clouded his head like weariness during a disease.

The bells sounded again. They were faint and distant, but all the more charming.

Pleasant as they were, Francis shifted onto his side and buried his face in his pillow. Sleep was so close it would fold in his mind once he'd shut his eyes. But another toll of the bells reminded him of the rendezvous he'd said he would attend.

With a yawn, he slowly got up, struggled into his clothes (he decided to leave behind his armor—no need for that in a church), and lumbered out the chamber.

He heard them before he saw them—not that they were shouting or causing a commotion, but the castle was so stiff with quietness that any sort of noise would reverberate throughout its corridors. As he rounded a corner, he saw five young boys and one boyish girl standing by the front entrance; though sleepy, they all shared expressions of enthusiasm.

Jeanne was holding Edmond's hands and looking up at him, eyes and smile wide. She bounced in place as she exclaimed, "It's all coming together. We're almost there!"

Edmond grinned back, appearing a little shy. "It is as God has said—it is as _you _have said, Jeanne."

"We must thank the Lord for everything. He has been with us and helping us this entire time—"

Jeanne's gaze slipped to Francis as he inched towards the group. Her smile broadened even more; she nudged pass her brothers, ran up to him, and clasped his hand in both of hers. Warmth radiated from her touch and flowed through his veins like a hot cup of cider on a cold, snowy night.

"My country!" she said brightly. "I have wonderful news for you!"

"Anything from you, my dear, is always wonderful. What do you have to share?"

The comment, once again, flew over her head like a bird high in the sky and he had to bite down on his lip to keep from laughing over her naiveté. Her eyes glanced over his shoulder and her voice lowered to a whisper as she leaned in closer.

"When the church bells first rang this morning, I heard my voices among them, clear as ever. The voices of Saint Margaret and Saint Catherine say that the Dauphin will meet with me and will give me an army to free the people of Orléans." She squeezed his fingers. "My mission is beginning; the Dauphin is on our side."

He paused for a moment. "Jeanne, these voices…they can predict the future."

She frowned. "They speak the truth."

"They were right about the journey here—eleven days, no setbacks. They were right."

"Yes."

"There was…no other way you could've known that, n'est pas?"

Jeanne smiled sweetly as if he were a child asking for a bedtime story. "I can see that the Lord has left an impression on you. Your heart has been touched and your mind has been opened. Don't worry—everything may seem blurry now, but the light will come and it will shine brighter than anything before. In fact, mass might make things clearer for you. We must go at once!"

She whipped around and bounded for the double doors, startling the two guards stationed by it. Her grip was still on him and he stumbled after her, but he contained enough strength to slow her down to a walk. Jean, Pierre, Louis, Edmond, and Noël, all realizing that Jeanne was leaving without them, hurried after the girl like a group of ducklings—they crowded together and talked over one another, thus Francis's inquiries and doubts were drowned out.

They followed the sweet sound of the bells through the streets until they fell in line with the other churchgoers in front of the old, withered building. Francis noticed how amazed Jeanne appeared: her hands were clasped tightly together and her eyes were locked onto the structure ahead, all her attention centered on the Father and the Son. Civilians and soldiers alike strolled into the church—unlike Jeanne, their heads were bowed and they wore looks of tiredness or distress. The interior of the church was just like many others Francis had visited: tall ceiling, wooden pews on either side, small crucifix hanging at the front, and a little old man in long robes walking around while moving candles and greeting people.

Jeanne led them towards the second row of pews (which they nearly filled up) and, while they waited for the ritual to begin, she whispered to Francis how mass was typically performed and even told him a few allegories from the bible. He never informed her that he was once religious, therefore had attended mass and knew many of the scriptures already. He let her go on for two reasons: he figured she was putting it on herself to educate him in the best way possible and, even though they'd only known each other for almost a month now, he knew she wouldn't give up until he knew _absolutely everything. _He was also aware of the excitement emitting from her as she spoke of Jesus Christ. Her eyes were as bright and wide as the moon and her hands moved around in a jubilant manner. It was clear that she was passionate about her faith and her passion made her beautiful; he dared not to interrupt her.

This was where his attention laid throughout mass (which ended up being majority of the day). His gaze periodically flickered to her yearnful face during songs and spoken gospels. When the room rose for the eucharist, he had planned on sitting through it, but once Jeanne looked down at him with such a desperate expression in those bright hazel eyes, guilt immediately bubbled between his ribs, so he quickly straightened up to be rid of the feeling, adding a smirk and a whisper that he'd "momentarily forgotten what to do."

She stayed long after the rite ended, as did he (the others snuck out as soon as the opportunity arose). She kneeled before the crucified Jesus on the wall and there she remained until night seeped in through the windows and only the priest wandered around the church. Francis sat in the first row of pews, waiting, watching. He patiently listened to her prayers, her conversations with God, but did not start his own. His vision would occasionally zoom in on a cross, a bible, or some other holy object; he'd ponder over it for a while before his eyes found Jeanne again, erasing whatever was building in his mind and replacing it with her.

Once she finally admitted that it was getting late and that they'd better be well-rested for the meeting with the Dauphin, Francis grinned, stood up, and offered her his only arm. Jeanne hesitated, and then cupped his elbow as if he needed assistance moving on.

None spoke during the trek to the throne room—only the clanking of armor and the shifting of feet rang throughout the halls. Several guards surrounded Jeanne and her companions, gripping their spears tightly while throwing an occasional glance in her direction. Francis walked beside her, apparently acting as both guard and messenger—he was the closest one on her left and no other soldier had the need to crowd them in.

He knew Jeanne would be quick and straight to the point with her message, her mission; he also knew Charles would be concerned and slow to action with such a request. He thought about what Jeanne's voices said, his gaze once again falling upon her person. As always, confidence straightened her spine and determination pumped through her legs. Not a lick of doubt or worry could be found anywhere near her. He wondered how this would all unfold, although he already had a faint idea of how it would.

"How are you feeling?" he quietly asked her, leaning forward so she could hear him.

She blinked, looking up at him. "Well. And you?"

"Just fine, thank you."

"Tell me the truth."

He exhaled lowly but grinned all the same. "It is the truth. I'm just not certain how the Dauphin feels now."

Her stare aimed straight ahead. "Everything is coming together, just as I've told you." She paused. "You believe me, don't you?"

Before he could answer, the group rounded a corner and came upon two large wooden doors. Two guards reached out, took hold of the iron handles, and pried open the doors, creaking loudly along the way. The room widened up, dark stone lining the walls, floors, and ceiling. Flags, tapestries, rugs, and other luxuries decorated the area with dark colors, golden rims, and plenty of fleur-de-lis to spare. Soldiers in shiny metal armor lined the great rug that led to the golden throne in the back of the room; Francis spotted la Hire and the Bastard among them. Lords in nicely embroidered doublets and carefully trimmed beards stood beside each other along the back wall, merely staring at their odd guests. It was equally quiet in there as it was in the halls that it took to get there—no one moved, no one spoke. It was as if death were waiting the corner of the room, patiently waiting for its next taking.

As they slowly strolled up toward the throne, Francis frowned. He saw the man sitting in the grand seat—he wore lavish garments, several rings on his fingers, a small crown sat upon his matted brown hair. But that man was not him, the Dauphin, Charles. Francis didn't know who that was; he looked a bit older with wrinkles on his forehead and a ghost of a mustache hovering over his cracked lips. Charles was young (twenty-six years to be exact) and he didn't look as tired as this stranger did.

Francis scanned the lords neighboring the throne and came upon a familiar figure near the back, two tall lads standing in front of him. He wore a black hat with a wide brim and a red velvet vest with fur trim. He had a long nose, heavy lidded eyes, and a broad forehead. His eyes were downcast but he must've felt Francis's eyes on him, for he met his gaze in an instant.

There he was—the real Dauphin of France.

Francis raised an eyebrow at him, a silent way of asking him why the hell was some random man sitting his throne? And why was he disguised as a casual-looking lord and hiding in the back like a shy toddler?

Charles glanced at Jeanne beside him, looked back at him, and then slightly shook his head.

He hesitated, but said nothing, his frown still lining his scarred lip.

The clutter of people stopped several meters before the throne, but Jeanne took another three steps forward, her eyes rested on the imposter. The man with the crown nodded his head in greetings as he said, "Welcome, travelers. I hope the journey to Chinon was not hard." He then looked at Francis. "And welcome back, Sieur France. We're very pleased to have you here again."

He bowed. "Thank you…my Dauphin."

The man looked back at Jeanne. "And you must be Jeanne d'Arc. You must forgive me, for I thought you would appear more…feminine."

She nodded back, saying nothing.

If this were the real dauphin, all would be fidgeting uncomfortably at Jeanne's ignorance to curtsey before him, but, as everyone seemed to be a part of this scheme (excluding the newcomers, of course), no one corrected her.

The man on the throne cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. "Tell me, mademoiselle, why you are here. What is it that you wish to accomplish?"

Once again she remained as quiet as the throne room itself. Francis watched her eyes pry away from the "dauphin" and then skim through the line of lords behind him. She searched and searched until she came upon a small figure in a black hat and red vest with fur trim. At first sight, her eyes shone.

Francis felt chills scurry up his spine. _Good God. _

"My Dauphin!" she cried as she hurried towards him. Charles started at Jeanne's sudden actions, as did everyone else around them. The noblemen hopped out of the way once she came within a meter of him; she bowed lowly, respectively. With tears brimming the corners of her bright eyes, she clasped her hands together and proclaimed, "My dear Dauphin! I've come for you at last."

The entire chamber rose in dumbfounded whispers. Francis, however, could utter no such thing, for all the words were stuck in his throat. It was like the harmless eleven-day trip from Vaucouleurs to Chinon: how did she know this? Very few people were aware of what Charles actually looked like—not even everyone in the province knew what he looked like. No one of her status would have even the slightest impression of what his physical appearance was like. This brought back the possibility that Jeanne was in fact telling the truth. She really had the voices of Saint Margaret and Saint Catherine in her head and she really was sent by God to restore the glory of France.

She wasn't confused or upset or mentally ill. She was pure and honest and ready to end this war.

Charles stammered, his dark eyes wide with shock. "Ah, no. I'm afraid you are mistaken; the Dauphin sits at the throne there."

Jeanne shook her head and laughed. "No, my Dauphin. You stand right here in front of me."

The mumblings increased in volume. Charles appeared absolutely flabbergasted—his body was frozen, yet his eyes flew wildly about him like a wandering butterfly. Jeanne showered him with meaningful praises and, once again, explained God's plan for him. Francis could hear the confusion in the voices of her friends and the astonishment in the tones of Charles's advisors. He wanted to tame the stirring chaos with the newfound spark pulsating in his chest. Was it love? Hope? Or was it something else at work? He wasn't certain, yet he needed to justify the words Jeanne was saying.

"It's true, Your Highness," he inputted, his voice louder than most. "Captain de Baudricourt has testified it in his letter and now I'm here to inform you as well. D'Arc has proven herself multiple times to be truthful of what she claims to be: a messenger of God. She is prepared for battle and carries the knowledge and power unlike any other human being I've ever met before. So, as a word to the wise, I highly suggest we all listen to what she has to say."

The room fell into another bout of silence. Both Charles and Jeanne looked back at him, yet both had different intakes on his proposition. The Dauphin didn't trust him—he could tell by the way his eyebrows furrowed and how he chewed on his bottom lip. Francis couldn't blame him, however, for they hadn't seen one another in such a long time, too long for a royal family member. Expecting him to have faith in him was asking for too much.

But the sparkle in Jeanne's big hazel eyes was worth the trouble. She sent him a smile that warmed his heart, the gratitude shining through her features. She then faced the Dauphin with the same delight she showed Francis.

"You can trust me, my Dauphin," she prompted with sincerity.

Charles exhaled lowly, knowing that his clever plan was hatched. "I must admit, I am fully impressed by your abilities thus far, but…so many uncertainties still linger in my heart. I'm hesitant to commit to anything."

Jeanne's shoulders stiffened slightly and her head turned to the right, her stare focused on nothing in particular. Francis noticed a faraway look overcome her and instantly recalled that day in the stables when he'd been cutting her hair and she shut down completely.

She was listening to her voices now.

No longer than five seconds had pass before her head snapped back to Charles as if she were a hawk catching movement from the corner of its eye. "God has given me information to share with you that will greatly influence your trust in me."

Charles didn't reply verbally—he merely lifted his chin and craned his neck forward, showing interest.

Jeanne peeked behind both of her shoulders before leaning toward him. Her next set of words were meant to be whispered, but due to each surrounding man's muteness, she might as well been talking to the whole room.

"It is something I must tell you in private."

Charles, Francis, and everyone else frowned at this rather bold statement. It was nearly impossible to get a private audience with the Dauphin, especially nowadays. What made her think that she, a young peasant girl from the middle of nowhere with a seemingly impractical plan, could speak alone with him, the last legitimate heir to the French throne?

Charles paused for the longest time, peering at this very strange girl through narrow eyes as if she were a complicated puzzle he needed to decode. Francis thought he'd turn down such a request, but then the unlikely happened: he glanced to the side, looked back at Jeanne, and then slowly mumbled, "Very well."

Nearly every breath was held, every fist clenched. The pieces of Francis's heart began beating uncontrollably; was he about to witness change? A miracle? A little bit of something else? He was so afraid he'd miss it that he didn't even blink as his stare trailed after the two, exiting through a side door on the far right.

At the sound of the low shifting of iron plates and the cautious muttering of tongues, Charles absentmindedly waved a hand behind him to stop any knight or noble from attempting to change his decision. He then passed through the open doorway alongside Jeanne who closed the door behind them.

Although it was quiet, noise broke loose within the throne room. All grumbled under their breaths, asking one another what the hell was going on. Curiosity had morphed into frustration, but Francis never took his eyes off that door. History was awakening right in front of him when it'd been asleep for so long; he mustn't miss a second of it. He wondered about many things: what Jeanne was saying to Charles, Charles's reaction, how this moment would affect the nation's future. But mostly he thought about Jeanne. Her strength, her influence, her kindness, her willpower. He felt his lungs deprived of air and his blood rush to his face—he was aware that love was soaking into his bones, leaving its mark for all to see. Nothing could stop it, he knew, and he held no shame, only admiration.

"Sieur France."

The voice was gruff, aged. It carried a certain weight of authority, thus it had to belong to an advisor of the Dauphin. Francis didn't acknowledge him in any way. Instead, he remained entirely fixated upon the door.

The voice tried again. "Sieur France, what is the meaning of this?"

A tiny flash of irritation erupted from his chest, yet his gaze never wavered. He huffed, muttering, "I don't—"

Suddenly the door burst open, a shaken Charles standing in the threshold, staring intensely at the floor. Every man watched his expression slowly morph from shock and confusion to realization and thankfulness. His head snapped up and his eyes met Francis. They shined as bright as the sun as if he'd seen the future, and it was glorious and just and all things good.

_Perhaps he saw God Himself? _

He stumbled over to Francis and gripped his shoulder. A smile tugged at his lips as he mumbled, "You must stay by her side at all times, no matter what."

He then headed towards his awaiting audience. His arms spread wide and his voice was surer than Francis have ever heard it before. "God is on France's side during this disastrous war and has sent us an angel to help guide us to victory. Behold our savior!"[5]

At that, almost all of the councilors made sounds of astonishment, distress, and even anger. They crowded him, talking over one another, asking what he meant by that. The knights merely stood there, speechless—la Hire and the Bastard shared puzzled glances before throwing them Francis's way. The young amateurs were the least surprised; they grinned at the reactions around them as if they expected these results (which they kind of did).

Francis turned back towards the open doorway, to where Jeanne stood. Hands folded in front of her and ankles pressed firmly together, she patiently waited for the bickering to die down. Her eye caught his and a little smile etched at her lips.

He melted into his own, the shattered remains of his beating heart slowly clicking back into place.

* * *

[1] There are records of this overpowering aura that Joan supposedly had, among both the French and English. Some French soldiers had admitted trying to make advances on her when asked about it in court years after Joan's death. Each one stated how whenever the thought dawned on them and they'd walk up to her, they suddenly felt something was wrong or that they shouldn't be doing this in the first place. They would turn the other way and not attempt it again. English soldiers have also said that, when in battle, they claimed to feel a kind of warmth or heavenly presence around Joan—they admitted to feeling safe around her. Joan seemed to have a positive impact on those around her, spiritual or not.

[2] Like the Bastard of Orleans, La Hire (pronounced "la aire") preferred going by his nickname rather than his real name—"hire" literally means "angry" in French and that's just what he was known for: being ill tempered, vulgar, and having a sour look on his face the whole time (the English even called him "the Hire of God" meaning "the wrath of God"). He was an excellent military commander and fought against the English nearly his entire life, often joining the Bastard of Orleans in campaigns (the two became great friends during their time in war together). Joan, as we shall see, would have a great influence on him and he stayed by her side until her death; he continued fighting with the Armagnacs until he died in 1443 of an unknown illness. Imagine having such an unpredictable temper that people literally dubbed you as "the pissed off one" and you actually preferred it over your real name—I already love this man.

[3] Europe has had their fair share of pretty terrible popes throughout their history of Christianity. Pope Sergius III conducted the murder of his predecessor Leo V from prison and had a kid with a mistress who would grow up to be Pope John IX (number one rule of being pope: don't have sex with anyone and don't get married. You must stay a single-pringle your whole life, so for Sergius to hire a mistress and have a child is a huge no-no in the Catholic community). Pope Stephen VI dug up the body of his predecessor, Pope Formosus, and put it on trial for blasphemy and then hacked off three of its fingers before dragging it through the streets of Rome. Pope Urban VI was known for being violently ill-tempered—he had six of his cardinals arrested before torturing them and eventually executing them. It is noted that Pope Urban complained to the torturers that the cardinals' screams were not loud enough. These popes reigned before Joan's time and plenty more wicked ones would ascend the throne later on.

[4] Saint Augustine of Hippo was a philosopher during the Roman times. He wrote an autobiography/confession/theological book that explained his theories on early Christianity in the western world which ultimately changed the way people thought about religion and is constantly referenced to this day. The tapestry mentioned here is based off a painting called "The Conversion of St. Augustine" by Fra Angelico where Augustine rushes to a garden and openly converts to Christianity. He was canonized to sainthood by popular demand and became the Doctor of the Church in 1298 by Pope Boniface VIII. In the Catholic faith, Augustine is patron saint of theologians, brewers, and printers. His feast day is August 28th, the day he died in 430.

[5] No one really knows what Joan said to Charles that made him put his trust in her so suddenly (despite the efforts of his advisors to dismiss her). One of his men, Guillaume Gouffier, seemed to have an idea, however. He overheard Charles in a chapel one day; he apparently asked God to show him a sign of his legitimateness to the French throne, if he was even worthy of it. This is the closest explanation we have concerning what was exactly said to Charles, for the future king never mentioned it and Joan refused to tell anyone about it, saying that it was a secret between her, Charles, and God, even when being prompted about it at her trial roughly two years later.


	6. Just a Farm Girl

****You'd think because my professors are old and don't know how to work the internet that they'd lay off the workload while in quarantine but no. They had the audacity to assign more than what they originally planned. So that's my excuse as to why this chapter is two months late. (Not sick, just bitter.) Stay healthy, mon amis!****

After winning the confidence of Charles the Dauphin, Jeanne thought she'd be on her way to Orléans immediately, but she soon came to realize that she hadn't won him completely. His councilors managed to convince him that an inspection was necessary. Just like at Vaucouleurs, priests and women were brought in to determine her religion, virginity, and even her gender. She was annoyed, yes, but was willing to go through with it, for she knew that Charles would eventually grant her an army to take to Orléans, thanks to her voices.

Obeying Charles's orders, Francis lingered by her side as often as he could. Although he backed away when some of the castle's women checked for her womanhood, he watched another exorcism performed on her and even chuckled when she jokingly told one of the priests, "If I were a witch, I would've hopped on my broom and flew away, which would be much faster versus how long you're taking." (The priest did not appreciate her comment, however.) She was thankful for Francis's presence, but what made her happier was the deep interest he now carried whenever she spoke of God, her voices, or her mission. He became serious and didn't bombard her with unnecessary questions and annoying judgements. He hung onto her every word; trust—and even perhaps the love of God—was now forming in his heart, and she beamed at his slow recovery to internal faith.

After all, that alone was going get them through the war.

Once Charles was satisfied with the unwanted examinations that ended up being extended over a few days' time, Jeanne and Francis were allowed another meeting with His Highness and his royal advisors (she wasn't looking forward to conversing with them if they were going to be anything like her first meeting with the Dauphin). She planned to ask for an army, battle armor, and Charles's permission to do whatever was necessary to throw the English out of Orléans. Not a sliver of anxiety or uncertainty hovered over her thoughts, for as long as the Lord was with her, she could do anything.

Apparently, several of the Dauphin's men (including advisors, soldiers, servants, and messengers) were still suspicious of her, so guards had to escort her from place to place. Francis—God protect him—kindly offered to accompany her around the castle, considering he was supposed to be following her anyway, but he was regarded with the same skepticism as she. A tight knot constricted in the pit of her stomach once she learned this—how dare they treat their country's personification with such disrespect! She would throw sharpened glares at them, suspecting them to be Burgundians with the amount of stupidity they carried.

One day, she and Francis were guided through the dimly lit corridors of the château de Chinon to attend the promised conference with the dauphin. Francis seemed to be in a much better mood now rather than the one he was in a couple days ago; in fact, he was the most alive she'd ever seen him. He wasn't jumping around with joy nor chatting a million words a minute, not even close. He was still quiet, still hesitant in his footsteps, but his shoulders seemed relaxed, his gaze was aimed straight ahead instead of at the ground, and when he smiled at her, it wasn't plastered on or stretched at the corners by invisible hooks. It now came naturally, and it was beautiful.

She was staring up at him, painfully aware of the heavy bags and terrible scars on his face. Her eyes, however, traced his sharp jawline, the gentle curl of his hair, the many shades of blue in his irises, his long straight nose. They rested on his lips, on his exposed teeth and inflamed gums. She wished he would look at her and smile, so she could see the genuine kindness behind it again.

She ended up staring for too long because her feet trailed off course and stepped on the toes of the soldier beside her; she bumped her shoulder into his bicep, the skittering and clanking of the mishap ringing around them.

"Excusez-moi," she muttered as she stumbled away. The soldier hardly casted a glance her way, but she caught Francis peeking with a sly smirk, suggesting he knew that she was staring at him the entire time.

Embarrassed, she averted her eyes. She didn't want to see _that _sort of smile.

They eventually arrived at a chamber much smaller than the throne room. A long wooden table sat in the middle of the chamber with ten wooden chairs surrounding it, four on the lengths and one on the widths. Burning candles hung from the iron chandelier above the table—the extra light was needed, for the room's only window offered winter's smoky grey skies and the sprinkling of tiny white flakes. Fortunately, a fireplace resided on the left side of the chamber, its warmth already making its way toward the newcomers.

Charles, who was fully dressed in appropriate royal attire (excluding a crown, of course), rested at the head of the table. His advisors filled in around him, leaving the other end open. They were also clothed nicely. Some were older, wrinkles clouding their eyes and outlining their cheekbones, while others were as young and smooth-skinned as the Dauphin. They merely stared at Jeanne with expressionless faces once she entered the room, yet Charles smiled kindly, warming her heart in the process.

"Good morning, Mademoiselle d'Arc," the Dauphin welcomed. He gestured towards the chair across from him. "Please have a seat."

Jeanne curtseyed before complying. "Thank you."

As Francis quietly took his place beside Jeanne and the two soldiers station themselves by the closed door, their long sharp spears gripped tightly in their hands, Charles introduced his council members to her; she tried her best to remember their names.

"Now, Mademoiselle d'Arc—"

"You can call me Jeanne, if it suits you."

Charles nodded once, a slight smile still hovering over his thin lips. "Now, Jeanne…" He knitted his fingers together. "Do you know why you are here?"

She nodded back. "Some are suspicious of my intentions and want to know whether they can trust me or not. But I believe a better question is: do you know why _you _are here, dear Dauphin?"

She sensed the men around her stiffen, but she kept her gaze trained on Charles's puzzled face.

"What do you mean?"

"I know you have confidence in me, my Dauphin, enough to send me to Orléans right this minute, yet you still called this meeting to order, probably for the sake of your advisors. You have the most power here—why don't you use this precious time and deliver me to Orléans before even more damage can be done."

"Well, we want to make sure that this plan would be the best for France," said the man sitting next to her. Jeanne looked at him—his muddy brown hair was styled like hers but longer and a red cap slouched atop his head. She believed his name was Jacques Coeur.

"The English are rapidly gaining the upper hand in this war," he continued, "and the Burgundians are growing closer with the enemy. Our situation is desperate, yes, but we must think rationally and plan carefully. We don't want the people and Sieur France to…suffer more than they already have."

"Sieur France shares the same opinion of my abilities. Go on and ask him of the things he's seen."

"Yet Sieur France has been unreliable for a long time now," replied another advisor, who sat on Charles's right. This man had wide facial features with a notable scar on his chin. Jeanne recalled the Dauphin calling him Arthur de Richemont, Constable of Brittany—"and a very useful military commander," Charles had mention as well.

"He's been wandering around, doing whatever the hell he wants," de Richemont spoke of Francis bitterly, "instead of staying by His Highness's side and boldly fighting for his cause. We don't know where he's been nor do we know what he's been doing, thus we cannot fully trust what he'll say."

Jeanne felt the familiar twisting of her gut, her temper tumbling around inside her. "How can one know what is best for his country without listening to what he has to say?"

"Quiet down now," Charles mumbled to the table, shifting through some documents before him. "You'll all have your opportunity to speak your mind." He sighed quietly and then looked back up at Jeanne, studying her expression, constructing his inquires. She attempted her best to appear as authoritative as possible—she raised her chin, straightened her posture, tried not to blink.

He paused for a moment longer before asking, "When was the first time God spoke to you?"

"The Lord sent Saint Michael the Archangel to pass on a message to me when I was thirteen years of age, though I wouldn't receive my mission for another three years."

"What did he say?"

"That I must continue my Christian duties like obeying my parents and attending mass, all of which I still honor. I presume that God was testing my worth for this mission."

Charles glanced to the side thoughtfully, yet she heard one of the councilors stifled a chuckle. Her head whipped toward the sound and then she snapped, "You'll have the opportunity to ask God Himself sooner rather than later if we don't act now! We're sitting ducks, waiting to be slaughtered by our enemies, the English and ourselves!"

"And what makes you think that you would know better than us?" retorted de Richemont again; Jeanne turned her attention back to him. "We've all been fighting this war our entire lives, as have our fathers and their fathers. We've seen things that not even your worse dreams could accurately portray. Experience and knowledge weigh heavy upon our belts, which is what has brought us here together—we're qualified to make important decisions. So, I ask again, what makes you think that you would know better than us?"

The knot in her stomach tightened as he rambled on: "You can't read or write, you don't know any English, you have no experience in military strategy nor how to wield weapons or properly use a warhorse. You are a teenage girl who's trying to do a man's job; a woman does not possess the physical and mental strength to endure the horrors of war. You are just a farm girl and this is not the place for you. And these visions of God make me fear that another Children's Crusade may be among us."[1]

Jeanne nearly jumped out of her chair at the sudden tug of anger in her gut. "It is because you refuse the word of Jesus Christ that has brought you here! You failed to recognize your own sins and learn from them—so have your fathers and their fathers. History is repeating itself, time and time again, all because you're letting fear control your minds; you're too afraid to change anything in order to save yourselves."

She turned to Francis. He was already staring at her, those blue orbs as deep and passionate as a summer night sky. Her vision blurred as she studied the horrendous markings of war on his body, in his soul. She couldn't even begin to imagine what exactly caused these traumas that should've healed long ago; she shuddered at the story of how he almost lost both arms.

She blinked away any upcoming tears and then peered at the expressionless faces around her. "How can you keep doing this to him?" she whimpered, motioning to the broken man beside her. "How long must he suffer at the hands of his own people? If he dies, we all die. He is the most important thing to protect right now and you're regarding him as a total stranger! Must we ask who is really killing France: the English or the French?"

A councilor with lightning blue eyes slammed a fist onto the table. "That is enough from you!" he bellowed just as Charles barked, "Moreau, please! Silence yourself!"

All council members turned to gawk at the Dauphin. They began to protest all at once, yet Jeanne could only comprehend what Coeur was saying (considering she was sitting right next to him): "Your Highness, we need to consider the risks before taking such a desperate jump into the unknown. The girl is upset due to the effects of war—her village was probably ransacked which has rendered her mind fragile—and we shouldn't yield to her mad ways. Send her back home; don't let her fool you! What did she say to you behind that closed door anyway—?"

"Silence yourselves, I say!" Charles yelled into the void of discord, that great, tangled mass of mind-controlling tongues that often won such arguments.

The Dauphin glared at his advisors until their shouts lowered into mumblings and their mumblings lower into muteness. He then growled in a voice that Jeanne wouldn't have expect from such a soft-spoken man: "I may not be king, but I do possess the most power in this chamber, in this château, in this _entire region, _thus I get the final say in all matters."

It seemed more like he was saying these things for his own sake rather than for everyone else. He had a faraway look in his eyes and his clenched fists weren't as tight as they could be. Moreau, Coeur, de Richemont, and the other advisors gaped at him as though he never objected to anything before (even Francis appeared surprised).

"I get the final say," she heard him whisper to himself. He blinked back into existence, looked around the table before focusing on Francis on the other end. Jeanne noticed his walnut brown orbs shifting around, absorbing all the disfiguring wounds that riddled his country's body. Some time passed before Charles spoke again like the calm before the storm: "What have you seen, Sieur France?"

It came out as a broad question, but everyone knew what he meant. Jeanne turned toward Francis. His gaze had fallen to the table as all kinds of memories flashed before his eyes. "Mostly ugliness," he mumbled. "Rivers of blood and armies of hatred. This war has been dragging on for nearly a hundred years now, and it keeps getting worse the longer it goes on. Any Frenchman will tell you that he'd rather die by the plague than by the hands of an Englishman[2]—the disease would be quicker."

His gaze then drifted toward Jeanne, a brilliant spark shining in those beautiful eyes of his. Her heart pumped with pride for him as he spoke slowly yet surely of his growing confidence in her: "But so much has happened since I've encountered this little woman a month ago. She accurately predicted the end results of a battle before I had the chance to inform anybody about it. She not only recognized me at first sight, but Your Highness as well, when she had no prior knowledge of what we look like. She even raised the spirits of the soldiers, which I didn't believe to be possible anymore." He turned to Charles again. "Imagine how strong, how fearless our military would be under the command of d'Arc. The soldiers would be as powerful as Roman warriors and our policies would be as precise and true as…as…"

"As Jesus Christ himself," Jeanne finished for him.

She sensed his eyes on her again, but she now faced the Dauphin who was looking at her with the same easement as her country. "Through God's strength, I will free the people of Orléans and have you, my dear Dauphin, properly crowned at Reims. The Lord has commanded it, therefore it will be done."

Charles paused for a moment. "What earthly materials do you require in order to achieve your heavenly mission?"

"I will need an army, battle armor, and your permission to do whatever is necessary to throw the English out of Orléans. I already have the faith and love that will guide us to victory."

Charles's advisors were still doubtful and at once fell into another argument. Jeanne watched the Dauphin's face morph into a look of annoyance as if they were children bickering about utter nonsense. This went on for awhile; she stayed quiet, for she knew she would get what they needed.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Francis leaning toward her while his fingers lightly brushed against her own, which rested on the edge of the table. Her gaze lingered on his middle finger, the one with the missing fingernail, as he whispered into her ear, "Your prediction has come true once again: His Highness is going to give you your army."

Her eyes flicked up to his. He was closer than she thought—if she were to nod her head, they'd surely bump foreheads. His trust in her had grown significantly and it showed in the blueness of his eyes and in the curve of his lips. She smiled back, amused.

"I know."

A few days after Charles had completely disregarded his advisors' thoughts on the matter and granted Jeanne the position as first commander of the French army, she received her final requirement: her battle armor. She was measured for it and, while the blacksmith hammered away at the protective gear, royal seamstresses were kind enough to put together a couple of outfits for her, including a black velvet doublet with golden trim lining the edges and a light cloak that was the color of blueberries and ended around mid-thigh, meant for decoration rather than protection.

Jeanne was never one to be picky about her appearance (all beauty resided within the soul, after all), but, with these elegant garments on, she couldn't stop the sense of pride that swelled in her chest. She liked the way she looked; she walked with a purpose and stood with authority. But she tried not to let it bury itself too deeply in her mind, instead focusing on the preparation of Orléans.

She sensed something similar once she was properly fitted into her battle suit. It definitely took some time getting used to—it weighed heavy on her body like half a dozen wool cloaks and, because of this, she couldn't really move without the iron plates clanking against each other. It also was a lengthy process to put on and take off, for there were several different pieces that connected in several different places, an unnecessary and complicated puzzle.

_One simply can't be stealthy in this attire, _she frowned as she studied her reflection in the looking glass. But once she began peering around her, at the soldiers and generals stationed nearby, she felt another boost of self-esteem. Compared to their suits of armor, hers was the color of cloudy skies, but shone brightly in the morning light, free of any stains or dents. The chainmail dangled from the openings in her armor and she ran her fingers through it, the smooth, tiny rings slipping through her grasp. And when she put the helmet on and closed its visor, none could tell it was her. She looked just like everybody else and she felt much safer that way.

When questioned what kind of sword the blacksmith should construct for her, she shook her head and explained that there was one already prepared—she just needed it retrieved. Unsurprisingly, their expressions twisted in confusion, asking her what she meant. She went on: there was a sword buried behind the altar in the church of Saint Catherine de Fierbois. There should be five crosses on the handle, she told them, and don't worry about the rust—it should come right off.

De Richemont frowned at this as if he were a dog that smelled something foul. He didn't believe her obviously, yet he volunteered to travel to the church to recover said sword. A couple of soldiers offered to go with the general (probably to experience her prophecy first-hand). They came back to the château about two hours later; they didn't need to see the sword wrapped in a sheet of cloth to know they found it—their faces said it all.

De Richemont cradled the five-crossed, rust-free weapon in his hands as if it were a blooming flower in the middle of a snowy field. His stare lingered and when his eyes met Jeanne's, she saw no shift in expression and knew that she'd won him over. He handed the sword over and then saluted. "I'll gladly follow you into battle, Commander d'Arc," he declared in that same tone he used to speak against her a mere day ago. Jeanne saluted back and thanked him for his faith in her.

Being a military commander gave her the power to bestow legitimate occupations onto others, so, naturally, she promoted her friends, the happy few she could fully trust. She granted Louis the role of a scribe—considering he was the only one of the group with the gift of literacy, she believed it would be beneficial if he could write letters for her. He humbly accepted her request and she thanked him kindly_. He has such a timid and thoughtful soul_, she thought_,_ _which is why he is perfect for the job: he can speak on paper when words aloud fail him. _

So, she gave him his first job to write up a letter to the English, as a warning to leave France before she sent herself and her army to Orléans to forcefully remove them. Louis sat quietly as he scribbled down whatever she said. She paced back and forth, recollecting what the Lord told her to do and feeling the passion of Christ and of France coursing through her bloodstream. Louis read her words back to her—they were short and straight to the point, but also carried the firm fortitude she wanted to express.

With Louis's help, she signed the letter as "Jehanne la Pucelle".[3]

She nodded, had Louis seal it with a fleur-de-lis, and brought the letter to her other soldier-in-the-making.

She anointed Noël as her personal messenger. She had seen him at training—he wasn't much of a fighter, but, as a messenger, he didn't need to be. He was quick and slippery and blunt, everything she would require of him. She knew she could trust him with bringing and sending orders rapidly and with efficiency.

"So I am to be the messenger to the messenger of God?" he asked curiously. He then brightened at the idea. "There cannot be another task greater than that."

"I'm glad you feel that way." She handed him the letter. "Because I need you to deliver a letter for me. You'll be accompanying a group of soldiers to meet allies at Blois who will then take the letter to Orléans and give it to the English. I'm assuming the English will respond so when they do, report back to me what they said."

He took the paper and saluted. "Sir, yes, sir!" And then he was gone, flying off into the night with determination on his back.

Edmond, though headstrong, had shrunk considerably in confidence ever since their journey from Vaucouleurs to Chinon. He constantly snuck glances over his shoulder and visibly tensed up at the mention of war. The closer they got, the more afraid he became. Jeanne knew that there was one thing stronger than fear and that was God; she knew Edmond's love for Jesus Christ was strong, so she pondered over what exactly he could do for her.

She eventually addressed Edmond with an idea in mind. "I'd like you to be my standard bearer," she proposed.

His eyebrows crinkled in confusion. "A standard bearer?"

"Well, not only are we fighting for the nation of France, but also for God Almighty. I want everyone to know this and I'm going to request that a standard should be made in the image of God. I need you to carry it for me."

A kind of yearnful look passed over his gaze when she said this. "You—you need me?" His voice was small like a child's and her heart cracked at the sound as if he believed himself to be less than.

With concentrated eyes, she held his hands and said, "Of course I do. You are one of the strongest and most courageous men I know. Your faith, your love is admirably powerful and I want others to realize this as well—not only will the enemy know the advantage we carry, but our own men will be influenced by the sight of a heavenly flag standing among them. Their faith will grow, their bravery will prevail. Who else would I choose to carry this little piece of heaven around for all to witness?"

Edmond's eyes practically glowed in sudden pride like a cat's when noticing hasty movement. He nodded his head and squeezed her hands, declaring, "You can count on me, Jeanne. I will proudly saunter into battle with God's standard high above my head. I will graze through the enemy and lift up the spirits of our brethren. Have no fear, Jeanette—I won't let you down."

A smile creeped up on her lips. There he was again: the same old Edmond who once claimed that he could fight off a rabid dog with his bare hands, who arm-wrestles anyone at any given chance, who needs to prove his physical strength at all times. She really needed him there, so she went off in search for the Dauphin to have such a standard made.

She came upon the grand double doors of the throne room; they were closed and two guards stood in front of it. When she requested to speak with the Dauphin, they refused, saying that he was currently conversing with Sieur France, General de Richemont, and other men of war. She did recall Francis being temporarily pulled away earlier in the day, but wasn't told of where he was going, much less of this meeting which she felt she deserved to be a part of.

"How much longer will they be?" she asked one of the guards.

"It is not determined," he answered in a bored tone. That was probably his go-to response for most questions he was asked.

She huffed, frustrated with all these needless delays. She was about to complain that they were, once again, wasting precious time when a voice piped up behind her: "I can pass on a message, if you'd like."

Jeanne turned around and found a very beautiful woman standing a few meters away, dressed in very elegant clothing. A small gathering of girls surrounded her—they appeared to be around Jeanne's age and also wore nice materials (though nothing as fancy as the woman). She held a little boy in her arms (perhaps five or six years old) who was resting his head on her shoulder—he had the same big brown eyes as the pretty lady, so she assumed that he was her son.

The guards immediately bowed, the low clinking of their armor echoing down the hall. "Your Highness," they acknowledged and Jeanne's chest could've burst at the overwhelming amount of shock she felt.

"Ah! Your Highness!" She quickly curtseyed before the wife of the Dauphin, Marie of Anjou. "I apologize for my ignorance; I didn't know it was you."

A small smile graced her colored lips. "I suppose the Lord didn't tell you about me like He did my husband."

She stiffened. "N-No, I'm afraid not."

Still smiling, Marie shrugged. "This is a man's world we reside in, after all." She adjusted the boy on her hip. "It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Mademoiselle Jeanne d'Arc. I've heard a great many things about you."

"Thank you. I do wish I could've spoken with Your Highness sooner."

"Is there something you need to tell my husband? I'd be more than happy to inform him of any requests you may have."

"Oh! I, um, wanted to ask the Dauphin about a standard being made for the battle at Orléans."

"Oh? Well, if that's all you desire, I can have that done without delay."

Marie set the little boy down and said to him softly, "Go with Pauline, Louis."[4]

The boy waddled toward a girl with hair the color of lemons and grabbed her awaiting hand as if he'd done this plenty of times before. As little Louis wandered off with the group of women, Marie turned in the other direction, looked at Jeanne, and uttered, "Come with me, Mademoiselle."

Jeanne hurried after her as she pushed open a door that she hadn't noticed before; Jeanne closed it behind them once Marie asked her to. They traveled down a few corridors before entering a small chamber with a large table in the center while ten empty chairs surrounded it. Jeanne recognized it to be the same room where the Dauphin's advisors pointlessly argued with her about the country's fate.

"At least there's no person here to nag us out," Marie muttered under her breath as she lowered herself into the nearest chair and grabbed a sheet of paper, an ink pot, and a quill that was left behind by some careless scribe. She looked up at her. "Come, sit."

Jeanne did as she was told.

Marie dipped the tip of the quill into the ink pot. "So what kind of standard do you require?"

Jeanne scratched the nape of her neck. "Um, well, obviously it should have something to represent the French people, to remind our soldiers what they're fighting for. But it also needs a dedication to Jesus Christ; I am here because of Him. The French army should be motivated to push forward, knowing that God is on our side and the English army should know better once their eyes fall upon this standard, that they shouldn't talk back to the voice of God."

Marie nodded her head, her tall black hat swiping through the air. "I agree. Lifting the spirits of our soldiers should definitely help our situation. Too many men come through here with such somber expressions on their faces and fear prevents them from going back into battle." She pondered. "So, perhaps a fleur-de-lis and an image of Jesus would send such a message across. I very much like the idea of putting the Virgin Mary somewhere on there." She smiled at her. "To represent you, of course."

Jeanne sensed blood rushing to her cheeks; she ducked her head, hoping Marie wouldn't see. "Ah, that won't be necessary, Your Highness…"

"I believe it is. Do you know how many times I've attempted to put in a word or two into those long council meetings? I was beginning to think that what they said was true: that women aren't suitable for politics or war or anything of the sort. But then God chose a young girl from nowhere with little to no experience to bring salvation to France once again." Her kind smile never wavered as she scribbled some notes down, lifting Jeanne's heart in thankfulness and confidence.

"I won't disappoint you, Your Highness," she said. "I will see to it that your husband is crowned king; because of this, you will be deemed Queen of France."

"Charles and I have high hopes in you, as does my mother, Duchess Yolande.[5] She was very happy to hear of your goals and strong determination to assist the French cause. In fact, she said she'd pay for the expenses it'd take for your army to get to Orléans."

Jeanne's eyebrows rose at this new information. "Oh! Nobody mentioned that at the council meeting. That is most generous of her."

"Of course they didn't," she heard her mumble. The scratching of the quill filled in the momentarily silence between them before Marie dropped it back into the ink pot and examined her work.

"This should do it," she approved. Her dark eyes met Jeanne's once again; she smiled fondly. "I'll make sure your standard is completed before the Orléans campaign."

"Thank you again, Your Highness." She paused. "Duchess Yolande is originally from Spain, is she not?"

"From Zaragoza, yes."

"Does Spain have a personification, too?"

Marie's smile softened as if recalling some distant yet cherished memory. "Yes. His name is Lord Antonio Fernandez Carriedo. He is a very kind man and is actually very good friends with Sieur France."

She blinked. "He is?"

"Oh, yes. Lord Spain has taken several journeys into France to see his dear friend throughout the war—or so I've been told. Last time I received word that he was in France was back in October, when the English took siege of Orléans. I'm not certain where or even if he managed to find Sieur France—no one really knew where he resided at that time—but I do know that Lord Spain is greatly concerned for his friend if he keeps risking attack from the Burgundians or the English just to see his face." She rested a hand on her bare collarbone. "I'm sure he'll be very glad to meet you, knowing what you are doing."

Jeanne smiled at the thought. "I'd be honored to meet him."

She continued to converse with Marie, relaxed to be in the presence of another woman, grateful for her faith and trust in her mission. She wished there were a way to contact this Lord Spain, to bring him to Francis so she'd know these two friends could finally meet again, but sadly, time was everything and she wasn't sure if it'd be helpful to the mission.

A couple days later, Noël came running into the château de Chinon. Jeanne was glad to see her friend healthy and safe but asked him why he returned empty-handed. He explained that the English apparently had nothing to say; when the French messenger stationed at Blois came back from Orléans with no letter to take, Noël prodded him to turn around and demand a reply at once.

"He said that wasn't how things worked," he grumbled, crossing his arms with a huff.

"That's not too surprising coming from England. He probably believed it to be a joke."

The two glanced at Francis on the opposite side of the room, hovering by the desk Louis sat at. He had looked up from the list Louis was preparing—Jeanne told him to keep track of food rations for her army in the upcoming days—and wore a disgruntled expression on his very bruised face.

"You may not receive any written message from Lord Arthur Kirkland; his responses tend to be unexpected and violent like the plague," he muttered under his breath.

"Who's he?" Noël asked.

"The personification of England. He's currently situated at Orléans, so your letter most likely ended up in his hands." His gaze landed on her. "This man is extremely dangerous. He's a very skilled archer and swordsman. Avoid him at all costs, Jeanne—he'll come for you once he realizes your potential. Stay away from him."

She narrowed her eyes. "I came here to get rid of the problem, not to avoid him."

"Jeanne, I'm serious."

"So am I."

"I'll take care of him; _you_ should be placed in the middle of the brigade, the safest position to be."

"Right, because you were handling things just fine before I came along."

She saw in the corner of her vision Noël's pursed lips, wide eyes, and raised eyebrows, clearly trying his best to hold in a laugh. Louis stopped writing and, while keeping his head down, flicked his eyes up as if waiting for something to go flying across the room. Francis didn't say anything; he only closed his eyes and sighed quietly, something her own father did whenever he was at his wits end.

She took a step forward and muttered, "I will drive the English out by any means necessary, even if I must drive out England himself, and not even _you _can stop me."

And with that, she spun around and stormed out of the room, wondering what was taking them so long.

"You already know General de Richemont, but I'd like you to meet some other generals who will be joining us in Orléans."

Jeanne, Noël, Louis, Edmond, Jean, and Pierre trotted after Francis, passing by the long line of soldiers that Jeanne and said generals were to lead into battle in a week's time. The plan was to meet up with the Scottish army at Blois and then travel to Orléans where they will relieve the troops stationed there before conducting their attack method.

Jeanne was aware of the many stares following her as she trailed behind Francis. She wished for them to look the other way (or, at the very least, for her brain to numb the feeling of being watched), but, with her being one of the few women on the castle grounds and the only female commander, she figured that'd be asking for too much.

They came upon two men having a pleasant chat as though they were old friends. One had the typical knight haircut and a thick unibrow while the other was heavily bearded and as tall and strong as a mountain. Their conversation drifted away once Francis Bonnefoy and six teenagers walked up to them, just like how a dog would show off her curious pups.

"Good morning, Sieur France," said the man with the unibrow. "How are you this fine day?"

"Just fine, thank you. I trust that you're also doing well?"

"Oh, we're just waiting around for the war to begin again." He slapped a hand on the broad shoulder of the enormous soldier looming next to him. "Our friend here hasn't beheaded anyone in over an hour, and he doesn't know what to do with himself."

They chuckled amongst themselves (including the giant) before Francis gestured to the children beside him. "I wanted to properly introduce you to Commander d'Arc and her loyal friends and soldiers—Noël, Pierre, Jean, Louis, and Edmond. Commander, this is General de Dunois and General de Vignolles. They've participated in many campaigns and are fully prepared for the Orléans operation."

Before Francis could even finish his introduction, Jean pushed forward and, with a gaping mouth and starstruck eyes, blurted out, "It's la Hire and the Bastard of Orléans!"

At that, the young soldiers openly gawked at the pair as though they just discovered a home of fairies (even shy little Louis gasped in delight and leaned between Edmond and Noël's shoulders to get a closer look). Jeanne gazed at the two generals as a memory danced across her vision, lifting her heart and leaving her breathless. Whenever a militia messenger came to their village with updated news on the war, she remembered hearing "the Bastard of Orléans" and "La Hire" often. Not only were their names constantly passed around, but with them carried great reputations that they never seemed to disappoint. The Bastard was known for his wit and bravery, la Hire had a long list of brutal deaths under his belt. And here they were, standing right in front of them in all their glory, praising them as if they were gods.

"I've heard that you once took down three men in one swing of an axe," Jean told la Hire. "Is it true?"

"You're so much taller than I'd thought you'd be," Edmond muttered.

"My soul can now rest in peace, now that I've seen true heroes," Pierre declared in a voice that was a mixture between pride and longing.

Soon they began talking over one another, burning questions overlapping like the waves of a hurricane. The Bastard raised his hands in surrender.

"You're all very kind and we should be thanking you for your service to His Highness's army. But Commander d'Arc…" He grinned at her. "You're something else entirely, aren't you?"

La Hire chuckled some more. "I'll confess I had my doubts at first, but when you spotted His Highness among that crowd of nobles, I knew then that the rumors must've been true. How did you know that the Bastard would nearly lose his leg back at Orléans? That was fucking amazing."

Jeanne's jaw twitched at his poor choice of words. "God Almighty told Saint Margaret and Saint Catherine to tell me." She paused and then added, "And He wouldn't appreciate you using such foul language."

As la Hire frowned in confusion, her friends simultaneously whipped their heads towards her, staring her down with looks of shock and embarrassment.

"Just let it go this once, Jeanne," Jean muttered. He had that irritated spark in his eye that he'd get whenever she was being the annoying little sister, humiliating whatever reputation or dignity he said he carried.

"Jeanne," Noël lectured, putting a hand on her shoulder as if he were her father or her uncle or some other parental figure who was allowed to give her a good talking to, "this is _la Hire and the Bastard of Orléans, _two of the most splendid fighters this good nation has ever seen. One simply does not tell such brilliance what language they can and cannot speak."

Temper rising, she shrugged out of his grasp and glared at him. "I have no care for how well they can wield a sword—they are still children of God and need to follow His example."

"Have I said something that offended you?" la Hire asked her, looking offended himself.

Jeanne tilted her head back to frown up at him. Quiet groans echoed around her and out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Pierre closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose.

"It is not appropriate for you to let your tongue utter such a sinful word," she retorted at the boulder of a man. "If we're to be comrades, then—"

"Are you referring to 'fuck'?" he interrupted. "If so, then you're going to have to get used to it because I use the word quite fucking often."

He then smirked to himself as though he thought he were clever, which only fueled the low fire in the pit of her stomach. She narrowed her eyes into slits and pointed at him as if her finger were a dagger.

"There shall be no use of that vile word in my army!" she yelled in his face (more realistically, into his chest). "France will not tolerate any sinful man who refuses to fight for the glory of Jesus Christ. Therefore, if you wish to stay in this army, then you must never say the Lord's name in vain nor use any curse for whatever reason. They are dangerous and create nothing but trouble."

"It is not," he snapped back, leaning over her, his shadow swallowing up her own. "They're merely words—they're useless until one gives them meaning."

"They already have unholy definitions! They're blasphemous!"

"No, they're not!"

"Yes, they are!"

"No, they're not!"

"Yes, they are!"

"Alright, this was obviously a mistake."

Francis stepped in between the bickering birds and pushed their shouting faces away from each other. He then took hold of Jeanne's bicep, leaving la Hire to his own devices while mumbling some farewell to the Bastard (who was covering his mouth with his hand although she could see the smile in his eyes). Francis began dragging Jeanne off to the side; she threw a glance over her shoulder. Her brothers and friends waved their hands frantically in front of la oh-so-wonderful Hire, pleading to ignore her outburst, swearing that she was as pleasant as they said. He didn't look impressed, but he wasn't totally against their claims either.

"What an extremely rude man," she muttered to herself. "We were never told he had such a mouth on him."

"Actually, you're the one who's being rude."

Francis halted in his tracks. He pulled down on her arm and lowered to her short structure. His eyes narrowed, his lips frowned. "Why do you have to argue with everyone you come across? What's the point in making so many enemies when you haven't even stepped into battle yet?"

Jeanne scowled back and ripped her limb out of his grasp. "I didn't come here to make friends; I'm here to save you and to crown the Dauphin."

"But you won't succeed if you continue to disagree and bicker over everything. There are several persons who have higher statues than you and you're going to need their help in order to get pass certain obstacles. If you manage to get on their bad side, then your mission is done for. Every enemy you make will come back to haunt you."

"Everything is in God's hands. If—"

"You're not listening, Jeanne!"

She flinched at the sudden intensity in Francis's tone. It was subtle yet all the more shocking; not even his facial expression shifted much. His torn lips were ajar, revealing even more of his crooked teeth and inflamed gums. Like a dog, his typically charming voice had growled through his clenched jaw which came out in a low snarl. He surprised her, definitely and he was aware of it. So, he relaxed his jaw, sighed, and then went on much more calmly:

"If you don't compromise with people, you're going to end up hurting yourself."

She stared at him with shut lips for a moment longer, but overtime she felt her teeth grind together and her face scrunch into a furious expression. She took one threatening step toward him, her neck craned back to peer up at him.

"And you're not listening to me, Francis," she hissed in the same tone he used with her. "I never said I was concerned about my personal safety. My only priorities are the Dauphin and you, and I will do whatever it takes to protect you two, even if other people will hate me for it, including yourselves. I know of the dangers that could befall on me; I'm not stupid. Come what may, and I'll make do."

As if for good measure, she rose on her tiptoes, mere inches from his face. She continued glaring at him; his stare flicked to her scowling lips before dragging back to her eyes. "And not even you can stop me," she growled. She then blew in his face and stormed off.

She felt her face and ears once she realized what she just did via another temper tantrum, and the heat only increased once she heard Francis's faint snickering behind her.

* * *

[1] Joan isn't the only person to receive spiritual visions, telling her to go to war. Two young boys, around the age of twelve, claimed to have visions from God, commanding them to go to Jerusalem and take back the Holy Land from the Muslims. In 1212, Nicholas of Germany and Stephan of France went with thousands of other youths via ships; it was a huge failure, considering they were all unexperienced children who didn't know a thing about war (hence the crusade's name). Whoever didn't drown were taken as slaves once they came within the Ottoman Empire's borders.

[2] It's the medieval ages, so yay! The Black Death is among us! England, France, and Scotland agreed to delay the war a few years to recover from the plague because so many of their men were dying (though Scotland had it the hardest). Soldiers withdrew into the countryside to recover but ended up only spreading the sickness further. When the wave of the plague finally passed through after 1350, the main rivals were looking about the same in both advantages and disadvantages, so weirdly, the plague didn't affect the military as much as it could've. What it did affect was the French government: a social change overcame the people of France and they strived for a more efficient central government. The feudalism system was loosened somewhat and a more democratic system was produced. The French monarchy that finally managed to kick England out in 1453 was not the same that suffered humiliating defeats at the beginning. Strange to say, but the French government wouldn't have improved like it did without the Black Death as a motivator to keep it stable and active.

[3] French translation: "Joan the Maid". Joan's name is spelled differently here because of the different pronunciations of the medieval times. Almost every language spelled things differently 500 years ago than they do today. This happened in the English language too; they put a lot more e's in their words.

[4] The first child of Charles and Marie would eventually become Louis XI of France and reign from 1461-1483 (he was nicknamed the Spider King, Louis the Prudent, and Louis the Cunning). He would continue his father's task of strengthening France after the end of the Hundred Years War (which ended around 1453). Louis wasn't exactly attractive and was often ridiculed for it, causing him to become superstitious and ruthless later in life. But he was very intelligent and devout to his country; he was "a bold warrior who was able to command loyalty." Louis would participate in battles in the 1440s and, impatient to rule, would join a rebellion with hopes of overthrowing his father (the Praguerie). It proved to be a failure, however, and Charles would pardon him from it.

[5] Here is one of the most underrated queens I've ever heard of. Yolande of Aragon contributed much to the crowning of Charles VII and ensured the best for the kingdom of France. Charles's parents were often against him during the Hundred Years War, believing that he wasn't meant to be king, so Yolande withdrew him from their court and placed him in her care and helped arrange the marriage between him and Marie. When Charles's mother, Isabeau, asked Yolande for him back, she wrote a giant fuck you letter, basically saying that she and Charles VI (Charles's dad) were ruining his chances of becoming king, thus making the situation worse for France. She soon took control of the House of Anjou when her husband, Louis II, died of illness in 1417—the House of Valois and the fate of France rested heavily in her hands now. She surrounded Charles with members from the House of Anjou, basically the only supporters of the French crown and even convinced John VI, Duke of Brittany to break a former alliance with England. She promoted Arthur de Richemont to Constable of France in 1425 and through him managed to remove several advisors from Charles's court who were deemed "unworthy to the salvation of France". Yolande was a huge supporter of Joan from the get-go and helped her financially and popularity-wise, spreading her name throughout Europe. She also hired groups of women as spies, coaching them into becoming the mistresses of powerful men and report back to her of what was going on around the kingdom, ranging from places such as Lorraine, Burgundy, Brittany, and in the heart of Charles's court. What an awesome, badass lady! Give her a movie, for goodness sake!


	7. Is She with You?

****It's been so long, my dudes. I rekindled my obsession with Attack on Titan (a lot of nasty things have been going on there) and, with it, the need to write fanfiction. I wrote a story with another fanfic author and started a one-shot collection for my OTP in that fandom. But don't worry! I could never forget Saint Joan and I've been checking in with this story every once in a while. I'm determined to finish this too, so don't panic about me losing interest and not completing the story. If I don't complete this thing, assume I'm dead and partying it up with Joan up in heaven. **

**Sorry for the long wait! Hope you enjoy this chapter!****

Time was not wasted with Jeanne in the lead. When several weeks went by and they still weren't in the one place God's messenger said she needed to be, she threw many angered outbursts at any royal official who dared to make up another excuse to delay the trip even further. Francis found these outbursts both amusing and adorable. She was bringing full-grown men to their knees by simply stomping her feet around and yelling at the top of her lungs. If that was the way to getting what you want immediately, then Francis was surprised that humans weren't doing this more often. Her angry face wasn't very intimidating, however, and he wondered if she was aware of it. Her little round nose would scrunch up and her bottom lip would stick out in the slightest. This reminded him that she was still just a kid, and that she was absolutely adorable.

Eventually, Charles intervened and sent Jeanne on her way to Blois where her army was to meet up with the Scottish and then travel to Orléans together. Francis, the Bastard, la Hire, and de Richemont led the path to the dreadful place that they'd all fail to save. The sensation of going back was very strange—memories of blood and arrows flooded his mind, drowning him in fear once again. But whenever Jeanne drifted into his line of sight, trying to keep up with Francis and the other generals and jumping into conversations of war, she always brought along hope. She was their Moses, parting the fearful sea for the French to return to their own homes.

_This time will be different. _

They arrived at Blois after a couple uneventful days of travelling. Blois was a small city compared to Chinon and Orléans. It sat right in front of the Loire river and had an elegant bridge that connected the countryside with the city. The cobblestone streets were packed with French and Scottish soldiers and other residents of Blois who had nothing to do with the war. The stone buildings were built dangerously close to one another and, due to the recent rainy days and warmer weather as May slowly creeped up on them, agriculture stepped into its busy season. Farmers and shop owners began exchanging goods, so that they'd have something to sell to all these soldiers before they marched on to battle.

Jeanne soon became distracted with the behaviors of the Scots, a different kind of human. Being only familiar with the French her entire life, the girl must've felt wildly confused and maybe a little offended. They were loud and tough and sarcastic and quite a lot of soldiers sported curly red hair and freckled faces, an uncommon trait among the French.

Francis watched her observe their surroundings in puzzled curiosity. Noël then jogged up behind her and, instead of properly saluting, scratched at his chest and yawned obnoxiously before announcing, "De Richemont wants to see you."

She turned to him. "What for?"

He shrugged. "I don't know."

Her shoulders deflated in disappointment. "Noël, for a messenger, you're terrible at your job."

"But did anyone die?"

"They will if you aren't specific next time."

The two waddled off into the orange evening sun, weaving through the crowds of French and Scottish soldiers, some of which greeted one another with big smiles and tight embraces as if they were long lost friends. Francis looked around. La Hire and the Bastard had also found a few friendly Scots and chatted animatedly with them (although la Hire appeared grouchier than usual—Francis figured it was because Jeanne told him he couldn't curse anymore). Pierre and Louis were wandering through the crowded roads, shopping for that night's dinner while Jean and Edmund were already locked in arm-wrestling matches with two young Scots.

Francis scratched his jaw. He could feel the drowsiness behind his eyes already. Maybe he should cross the bridge and sleep in one of the tents by the river. It would be safe to assume that Jeanne would wake them at the crack of dawn, pack up camp, and march into Orléans. He tugged on his cloak and turned on his heel, but then stopped once he spotted a particular redhead wiggle through the crowd.

"Oi, you blond cunt!" His crooked grin was wide as always (which was very pleasant to see a day before death). He wore a breastplate over his linen shirt and had on heavily stained trousers and knee-high boots. He held his short black cloak in a fist over his shoulder. A purple bruise bloomed across his knuckles, his right eye was a bit swollen, and Francis knew he had a nasty scar (probably infected) around his left bicep.

"Sieur Scotland," Francis greeted in Gaelic, lifting his arm and waving his hand. "It's so nice to finally see you again."

"It is always nice to see me, I agree," he replied as Francis pulled him in and kissed both his cheeks. "I'm a fucking delight to be around."

Francis laughed and patted his shoulder. "Mais oui."

Allister Kirkland (or the personification of Scotland) playfully punched his arm (which still kind of hurt). "So, is it still hard to put on your breeches in the morning? Jesus Christ, I'd pay to see that shit."

He rubbed at his stub of a shoulder shyly yet grinned mischievously. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

Allister's face scrunched together as he swatted at Francis's torn mouth. "Don't fucking smile like that—it's fucking creepy."

He dropped it and changed the subject almost immediately: "I must thank you once again for everything you are doing. You've brought much courage and strength to my men, and your army is fearless in battle. I owe you my life."

"Are you trying to pull my breeches down or what?" Allister chuckled. "But, no, don't worry about it. After all, the enemy of my enemy is my friend. And I'm only repaying the debt I owe for your service during the independence wars."[1]

Francis nodded once. "Anytime."

"Oi, is it true you've got a lady commander now? I heard General Stewart talking about it earlier and…why? Is-is there a reason for this or did you just get fucked over?"

Allister's green eyes zoomed in on him while his bruised fingers curved into his thick, curly beard, clearly interested in whatever Francis had to say. He tucked his cloak beneath his arm and leaned forward slightly. Francis wondered what was running through his mind exactly—did he like the idea of having a female commander or was skepticism holding him back from hopping onboard?

He smirked. "What? Do you believe a woman could take down Arthur and his little minions?"

"Well, we've tried everything except that. It's like saying 'we've tried everything except catapulting baby pigs over their walls'. I'd imagine they'd cause some damage and leave the bastards frustrated and confused, but eventually they'd gain control of the situation and slaughter the poor creatures—plus they'd get free meat." He blinked at him. "Are your people desperate enough to think that's a good idea? Is she here now?"

His eyes flickered around them like a cat's searching for a sliver of reflective light. Francis chuckled. "She has transformed herself to appear like a man, so it'd be impossible to spot her in this crowd."

Allister's thick eyebrows crinkled together as his gaze landed back on him. "Did she grow a beard and sew on a dick?"

Francis rolled his eyes. "She cut her hair and strictly wears men's clothing, you jackass."

He rolled his eyes back, a little overdramatic. "Oh, piss off, you condescending bawface. Have you ever heard of such a thing as that? _A woman _trying to lead an army of _men_? How ridiculous."

Francis shifted his weight onto one foot. "Then you haven't heard the rumors that accompany her name."

"You mean that she recognized you and your prince upon sight despite having never seen you before? Yes, I've heard that one. Also that God Himself apparently told her to retake Orléans and crown you a future king. That's fucking strange."

He frowned. Allister seemed more concerned with Jeanne's gender than with the miracles she committed. It made him wonder about Scottish women and if containing heavenly knowledge was considered normal to them.

"We live in strange times, I suppose," he commented before adding, "Oh, it would be wise of you to keep all those curse words to yourself whenever Commander d'Arc is around."

"Why is that?"

He chuckled once more. "I'm certain la Hire will tell you all about it."

As if on cue, Jeanne came running up behind Allister with something long and white in her hands, a big smile spreading across her face.

"Francis!" she called out, practically shoving pass Allister. "Look at the beautiful standard Her Highness, Marie of Anjou had made for me!"

She opened up the fabric for him to see, but it was much too long to absorb all at once. He did see, however, the little golden fleur-de-lis sprinkled along its ends like tiny sparks of light against the bright white snow. Jesus Christ sat at the opposite end with two angels kneeling at either side of him. Golden halos encircled their heads while colorful wings sprouted from the angels' backs and Jesus held up his palm in peace. The words "Ibesus Maria" were embroidered beside the holy figures in the famous Gothic style that was becoming more popular by the day. Red trim outlined it all; the flag was strapped to a skinny pole that was twice her size.

He smiled at her. "What a beautiful piece of artwork. Do you plan to bring it to battle?"

"Of course! Edmund is to be my standard-bearer—he shall hold this high in Orléans, so that others will not lose sight of what we are fighting for."

"It would be an honor to carry such a standard as this one." He gestured to Allister between them. "Jeanne, I'd like you to meet Sieur Scotland. He is a personification, just like England and myself, only he is far more brilliant in war."

He then leaned forward and whispered in her ear, "Be nice." His body retracted yet his smile stayed as though he said nothing at all.

Her eyes narrowed at him for half a second before turning to Allister, saluting. "Enchanté, Sieur Scotland. I am very thankful and lucky to have you and your men here with us. May the Lord bless and protect you."

Allister gave a half-ass salute back. "So, you're the great maiden I keep hearing about," he replied in French. "Apparently Francis here thinks putting you in charge is a good idea."

"In a few days time, you'll be agreeing with him."

Her tone wasn't sharp nor arrogant but completely innocent as if she were telling him her parents' names or her birthplace. Nevertheless, Francis sighed, bracing for impact.

Allister blinked and then smirked. "Well, shit, I hope you're right."

"Allis—ugh," Francis groaned. He bowed his head and brushed his fingertips over his temple. Embarrassment, annoyance, and worry made him shake his head and pray for Allister's sake.

Jeanne visibly stiffened. "I know you are a personification and have more authority in general, but I cannot allow such disdainful language to be used in this army. We are God's soldiers, after all."

"Ah, I see." Francis sensed Allister's eyes on him; he was probably grinning too. The cocky bastard.

"He did warn me—Francis, I mean—about your dislike for swear words. I'm terribly sorry, darling, but I'm a Scot: cursing is in my blood. Just because you said it doesn't mean I'll stop."

"You may be a Scot, but you are also a child of God and shouldn't say or do things that He'd disapprove of. Now silence your tongue."

"Fucking hell, you're going to be a pain in the ass to work with." He huffed and shrugged back into his cloak.

"Stop saying that!"

"I'll fucking stop when you—"

Francis looked up just in time to hear an audible slapping sound. Allister's head jerked to the right, his floppy red hair whipping through the air. Francis's eyes flew towards Jeanne whose right hand kept clenching and unclenching itself as if it ached or burned. She hissed at Allister like a rattlesnake, threatening him through her crooked teeth: "No fighter of this army will utter any profanity under any circumstances. If he should do so, then he is no longer needed here. This includes you."

She then stomped away, the decorative fabric of her standard flapping in the wind behind her. She shoved pass a few other soldiers, slippery yet rough, to get to Edmund and Jean. She also presented her flag to them, although with much less enthusiasm than before.

Francis sighed once again and peered at Allister, who was staring after her.

"You can't just let things slide, can you?" he nagged. "Why must you try to poke the bear?"

Allister looked up and, despite the burning sensation on his cheek, grinned slyly. "I like her," he said in Gaelic.

Francis raised an eyebrow. "Pardon?"

Allister leaned toward him; he kept his voice low as if he were spilling some big secret. "A little annoying, yes, yet there's something about her that draws you in, you know? Heh, of course you do—you fucking put her in charge. I like a woman with a strong grip." He chuckled to himself and glanced behind them, eyeing the back of her head. "If she keeps that little fist of hers tight and steady, then we just might have a chance at beating England down. It all depends on how many good punches she can throw."

Francis's stare narrowed at him. "This is the quickest I've ever seen you change your mind. If I had known that a woman could beat you into submission, then I would've written to Hungary more often; she literally knocked some sense into you."

He frowned at him. "Everyone knows Hungary's dick is bigger than her tits; that doesn't count. But honestly, the whole time I've trend French grounds, I've never realized that your women were such angry little shits. Maybe that's what we need—a little girl with the same fiery temper as my little brother." He snickered at the thought. "He wouldn't know what to do if he found out there was another one of him."

"Another one…?" Francis scrunched his nose in disgust. Jeanne d'Arc, another version of Arthur Kirkland, the little shit who believed that the world revolved around him and him alone? They were nothing alike! Jeanne was kind and intelligent and full of love. Arthur was cruel and careless and full of hate. Just because they both possessed nasty tempers that would explode at any given moment didn't mean they were the same person. What a stupid claim to make!

Francis left his response incomplete and stumbled off into the crowd, feeling bitter.

A little over twenty-four hours had ticked by before Jeanne, de Richemont, and General John Stewart (the Scottish commander) all agreed to make the journey to the dreadful siege. Francis could sense the fright and hesitation rising among the Frenchmen like smoke bellowing from a bonfire while packing up camp and drag themselves down the dirt road. The Scots acted like how they always have: they took big swigs of whatever alcohol they could find and march on ahead, talking smack about the English.

He examined the soldiers, these careless yet anxious soldiers, as he sat upon his well-rested steed while the majority of others travelled by foot. It had always been this way, yet he still found it a bit unfair. Soldiers were forced to trek through the mud and the snow while generals and captains rode their horses through it all—some leaders of war never even participated in battle, instead sending others to their deaths from a safe distance away. The soldiers deserved to rest their feet and save their energy (but that was just Francis's opinion).

"Francis, there is something I must tell you."

He grinned as he turned to face Jeanne. She had been wearing her specially designed battle armor ever since they departed Chinon (excluding the helmet and gauntlets); she even wore it in her sleep. Besides her brothers and close group of friends, Francis was the only one who was permitted to be anywhere near her at night. She would bite at anyone who got too close as if she were a vicious dog guarding some sacred treasure, yet whenever he crept her way to replace her for sleeping shifts, afraid she might attack him as well, she'd merely nod her head and drift off right there.

He felt honored to be considered so trustworthy in her eyes. _At least someone feels at ease around me. _

"What's that, my darling?" he hummed. "If it's from you, then it must be good news."

A guilty air settled on her features; she slumped her shoulders and her gaze saddened. It caught his attention, but he didn't think much of it. Her dramatic mood swings often switched at the tiniest of matters (like her problem with all this cursing), so his worries weren't too terribly high.

"Then I'm afraid I'll have to break your heart," she mumbled, disappointment seeping from her quiet tone.

"Oh, go on and do it," Allister piped up as he tossed his head back, smirking. He rode an ash grey stallion a few paces ahead; Francis wasn't surprised in the slightest to learn that he'd been eavesdropping.

"I'm sure he'd enjoy the heartbreak," Allister added with an obnoxious wink.

Francis rolled his eyes playfully while Jeanne snapped at him, quick and sharp like when an arrow is released from the bow string. "Don't you have an army to look after, Sieur Scotland?"

"Don't you have someone's face to punch in? Seriously, inform me if you do—I'd love to watch."

"This doesn't concern you! Go away, you nosy little bug!"

Allister's face pulled back in fake offense. "Oh, no! A wee bug? Not I!"

"Sieur," Francis intervened with a slight smile before Jeanne said something she would later regret. "Please?"

Allister relaxed his expression, settling into a quirked grin. "Alright, alright. Enjoy your heartbreak, whores."

He trotted ahead with a snicker just as Jeanne's jaw dropped to the ground. Rapid stuttering noises tumbled out her mouth and tripped after him. She threw her hands in the air and groaned in frustration. Francis had to suppress a laugh, for Jeanne's sake.

"I can't understand how you can tolerate that man's behavior," she grumbled under her breath, letting her hands fall back onto the reins in her lap.

Isabelle, her brilliant white steed, bobbed her head up and down and kicked her front legs out as if she too were annoyed with Allister's behavior.

"He teases the people he likes," Francis calmly defended. "Just like Noël."

"But Noël keeps his tongue clean of any unholy terms. Sieur Scotland blurts out whatever he wants, whenever he wants. Has he no respect for Jesus Christ?"

_He probably has more faith than I do, _he thought yet dared not say aloud. Instead he cleared his throat and asked Jeanne what she meant to tell him, steering her thoughts away from what angered her so.

Her pouting face slowly morphed into a tight, concentrated expression as if she wasn't sure how to tell him exactly. Her eyes fell on his hands and climbed back up to meet his gaze. Her lips cracked open and then she whispered, "Sometime during the Orléans campaign, I shall be struck by an arrow in my right shoulder."

Nothing powerful nor sudden overcame him (which was probably what she'd expected to happen). At first, he was confused. Was fear finally taking its toll on her and burying brutal possibilities deep within her brain? He couldn't blame her in that case. But it was the specificity that caught his attention.

His gaze narrowed as he leaned toward her and whispered, "Did your voices tell you this?"

Jeanne's hazel orbs were locked with his navy ones. She merely nodded her head.

Her voices—Saint Margaret, Saint Catherine, and Michael the Archangel. They were the same ones that told her where an ancient sword was hidden, so that she may use it in battle. They told her about the safe trip to Chinon, they spoiled Charles's plan to blend into the background, they whispered the results of a battle before Francis even had the chance to. They told her of his existence.

They foretold that she would overtake Orléans and have Charles crowned as a proper king. And now they were saying she was to take an arrow sometime in the next few days. Despite everything, was it likely?

Francis chewed on his upper lip and thought carefully before he spoke: "As long as you stay on your guard and remember those combat skills I taught you, then you won't have to worry about a thing."

"It's going to happen despite any precautions," Jeanne insisted. "If God wills it, then it shall be done."

"I'll be right beside you the whole time. You'll have several French and Scottish soldiers around you throughout the entirety of the campaign."

She shook her head. "You can't stop it."

_She says that a lot, _he frowned. _"You can't stop me" and "you can't stop it". It's as if she's constantly reminding me that I am powerless against God. _He pondered and his frown deepened. _We'll see about that. _

He looked at her with the same determined gaze she often wore. "You don't have to worry about anything. You'll be okay."

Her expression saddened; the corners of her mouth drooped, and her eyebrows crinkled together. It was a look of pity as if he were a child that couldn't understand the concept of death. Her shoulders slumped as her eyes averted his, now aimed straight ahead.

"I'm not afraid," she mumbled into the stiff atmosphere between them.

She didn't say another word to him until they arrived at Orléans a day later.

Whenever entering a battlefield or siege or battalion, Francis usually focused on the smell before trusting his eyes or ears. Over the years he learned that he couldn't believe what he saw nor what he heard in order to unravel a situation—he could never see all angles of a story and people were prone to lie under pressure. It was difficult to cover up an odor, however, especially the smoke from a burning building or the aroma of a rotting corpse.

His nostrils flared at the familiar stench of cannon-fire and blood. He knew they weren't at a good start.

He then let the scene unfold around them.

French and Scottish soldiers darted among the looming oaks like panicked rabbits, searching for a safe place to hide. Many laid in the blood-stained grass, moaning in pain while physicians performed amputations and bloodlettings. Distant booming echoed ahead, though he couldn't see the damage that came with it. A small group of unharmed men were tucked off to the side. They didn't wear their helmets or gauntlets and they argued loudly with one another, papers gripped firmly in their hands—Francis assumed them to be captains or majors of some sort.

Behind him, de Richemont had begun yelling out orders. Soldiers (some of which weren't even in full armor attire) scattered off in different directions, either going to assist the fallen or the frightened. Francis noticed Noël dash away on his horse, zooming pass all others and fading deeper into the woods, toward the sound of canon-fire. Francis peeked over his shoulder at Jeanne and opened his mouth to ask her where she was sending him, but the look on her face halted his speech before it even began.

Her eyes, which were the size of dinner plates, froze with panic. The fear she claimed not to have welled up in big, slippery tears and rolled down her cheeks. Her gaze darted around them yet her body was rigid. Her hands gripped the reins on Isabelle so tightly that her knuckles bulged out of her white skin. She panted through shaky breaths; her jaw twitched repeatedly as if she were constantly holding back a scream. It was clear that de Richemont took control of Jeanne's personal messenger, for Francis knew she had lost her ability to speak somewhere among the distant booming and painful moaning.

Poor thing hasn't even seen the actual battlefield.

"Await your positions!" de Richemont ordered, raising a hand in the air. He, la Hire, and the Bastard dismounted their horses and jogged over to where the gathering of military leaders were stationed while the rest of the soldiers stayed behind, adjusting their armor, readying their weapons. Stewart and Allister joined as well.

Francis descended from his own steed; he then hurried to Jeanne who hadn't moved an inch. He didn't know if she even saw him coming.

"Jeanne?"

She failed to respond. Her stare aimed straight ahead, into the trees where Noël disappeared.

"Jeanne." He lightly touched her hand—it trembled ever so slightly. "You don't have to do this, you know."

She heard that. Those big, hazel eyes slowly shifted his way; she blinked once, twice, and then drew her hand back. She swiped at her eyes as she murmured, "No, I do. I can do this."

She shook her head and took a deep breath. He watched her grab the gauntlets that were hooked onto the side of her saddle and slipped them on. She did the same with her helmet (though she kept the visor up). He paused momentarily before offering his hand to her. She too hesitated before taking it.

He easily held up her weight as she swung her leg over and dropped to the ground. "I'm sorry you feel this way," he told her. "You hold yourself up so high I almost forgot that you are still just a child. You are very brave, perhaps the bravest of us all. We are very thankful to have your young spirit with us, with me."

Those beautiful, wonderful eyes of hers glanced up at him. The blues and greens clashed like a storm at sea yet, at the same time, they melted together and created a lovely watercolor painting. He could read her like a book; she didn't try to conceal her emotions. He saw flashes of confusion, sorrow, and anger, but it was the fear and willpower that clouded those aurora orbs. It was the bravery that he had fallen in love with.

That sparkle brightened when he whispered "I am so proud of you" and his heart could've burst at the sight. He wrapped his fingers around her iron ones as they trailed after the other generals.

"No, we should send the troops to the east," said one captain with bushy eyebrows and a giant mole near his upper lip. "The land there is flat and we'd have the cover of the trees to move around stealthily."

"Only an absolute fool would believe that's a good idea," barked another commander. The caterpillar he probably called a moustache twitched furiously as he spoke. "There's way too many English troops stationed there; we'd all be slaughtered in an instant! That is why we must go west, where it's not as heavily guarded."

"What, do you expect them to just let us waltz right into town? It's most likely a trap—they'll be upon us before we know it and then we'll have another Azincourt on our hands."

"Now you're making them out to be ghosts or little demons. Do get your head out of your ass and think rationally for once!"

"You were the one who was knocked upside the head by the hilt of an Englishman's sword. Perhaps you suffered a greater head concussion than we thought."

"What if we approached them from the south?" de Richemont suggested.

He had plucked the piece of paper from the moustache man's hands. Francis peered over Jeanne's helmet; it was a map of Orléans that included the surrounding Loire valley. Black lines and circles decorated the crinkled sheet, highlighting possible attack routes and pointing out English bastilles.

De Richemont dragged his finger around the walls until it rested on a small region south of the city. "I sent a runner in that direction to examine the situation and report back to me. If the English are few, then I propose we enter Orléans through the Sologne region. We can smuggle supplies in from Chécy, about four miles away. It'll give us time to properly prepare, reload and gather more troops."

The other commanders exchanged glances, but said nothing. Francis closed his eyes and sighed. No wonder they were losing the war.

He almost didn't hear the quiet voice of a very frightened Jeanne pipe up, "No."

He, including everyone else, shifted to look at her. Her eyes were locked onto the map in de Richemont's grasp, gears cranking away as an idea began manifesting.

"Pardon?" someone replied before she snapped back into a determined stance.

"We should attack—"

An agonizing scream made her lose her focus. She whipped her head around to see a soldier wiggling in pain as another soldier tried holding him down while a physician readied an axe to chop off his calf. She quickly turned back around once the axe came crashing down and the screams filled the air once again.

Francis squeezed her hand even tighter, hoping to ooze out all the fear bubbling within her. _She is just a girl, a child. She shouldn't be here; she shouldn't have to experience this. But the fact that she's still here, that she's choosing to be here, tells me that she has the biggest heart and the strongest mind. _

His gaze flickered towards the patches of blue sky in between the colossal trees. The canons echoed and the cries grew louder, yet the sun still shone.

_What exactly do you plan to do with her? _

"What do you mean 'no?'" prompted de Richemont.

Francis's stare landed on the general. He glared at Jeanne with a look that dared her to question his strategical thinking. He was ignoring the dying wails of the unlucky man behind them and the obvious dread swirling in her wide eyes like hurricanes. She wouldn't be getting any pity from him anytime soon.

Jeanne took another shaky breath and rubbed her eyes. She sniffed and muttered out, "We should attack from the north. We can bring in supplies through Saint Loup once the English have cleared out."

Francis heard la Hire snort and saw the Bastard and Stewart sigh and shake their head. Beside him, Allister quirked a grin and stifled a chuckle. Francis, however, merely bit the inside of his cheek.

De Richemont paused, expressionless, before tapping at the black circles littering the borders of Orléans. "Those represent English barricades."

Even though he couldn't see much of her face (that helmet was just too big on her), Francis knew she shared the same expression of a mother wolf who spotted another attempting to steal away her babies. "I know that," she growled.

"Saint Loup is surrounded by the enemy," added the general with the moustache. "It's located in the northeast; the English have it in the palm of their hand. We must be extremely cautious about what we do."

"They already know we're here," Jeanne argued back, "so what's the point in hiding? Let's attack head-on. They're probably expecting us to do just that: hide, run away, give up before even starting. Attacking their barricade with full force will show them we aren't afraid and won't surrender, no matter the cost."

"Big words coming from such a wee girl," commented Stewart, placing a hand on his hip. "Better not to say them unless you mean them."

"Of course I mean them! Why wouldn't I?"

"Commander," the Bastard calmly interrupted, "perhaps it would be wise to follow General de Richemont's plan. We have less than five hundred men with us and, if we go straight to Saint Loup right now, many of them will perish." He looked at her with sad eyes. "We've lost too many to give up anymore."[2]

Jeanne's head whirled around like a hawk, peering at each frowning face, searching for someone to support her. Her grasp on Francis's hand loosened once she faced him. He could see one wide eye staring up at him—it reminded him of a fish's when it realized it'd been caught.

"But we have God on our side," she squeaked like a breathless mouse just as the sound of galloping hooves drowned her whispered argument out.

All turned toward the arrival. Noël, also trembling with fear, held onto his steed as he slowed to a stop. He gripped the leather reins tightly, peering down at them with important news hanging on his lips.

"The Sologne region is clearer than most," he told de Richemont. His voice was louder, yet it weighed as much as Jeanne's. "Someone named General Bernard said it'd be preferred if our squadron would take over theirs—they have injured and have been stationed there for a few days. He said travelling to Chécy shouldn't be too much of a problem."

Noël's expression suggested otherwise.

The captain with the mole on his lip glanced at Jeanne. "I suppose that makes up our plan then."

Francis couldn't hold back the tight knot in his chest from leaping to his throat and unfurling in an angry whiplash.

"Yes," he muttered, "we are to enter Orléans through Saint Loup and take over the English barricade."

And now all gawked at him with the same annoyed grimace that they shredded Jeanne with.

"And what makes you think that?" retorted the captain, scrunching his Roman nose in frustration.

Francis snapped back, "Maybe because we've done the same defensive strategy time and time again and gotten absolutely nowhere. What makes you think that it'll work this time?"

"We've got—"

"We've got _nothing _without her! _Nothing!" _He jabbed an open hand at his face, fingers twitching, palms sweaty. "I haven't been able to use a bow and arrow in years; I haven't even played an instrument or carry two candlesticks at the same time for nearly two decades. Have you ever considered the state of the nation—the state of you all—when I, your representation, can barely walk a straight line? When I continue to lead thousands of terrified men to their deaths over and over again? When England gets stronger and I get weaker?" His only hand dropped to his side, along with his confidence. "The blood grows thicker on French soil every day—if we go on like this, then soon enough we'll drown in it. We must change our ways, for the sake of us all."

"Fucking finally," Allister added. He slipped in a grin and crossed his arms, looking pleased. "I've been waiting for this character development ever since the whole bloody war started."

The Bastard raised his unibrow in surprise. "Sieur Scotland, you too?"

Stewart crossed his arms as well. "We may be on the same team," he answered for Allister, "but that doesn't mean we agree on anything you dumbasses say. Sieur France and Commander d'Arc are right—attacking in broad daylight, in full view, is the best way to go about this. The English are expecting us to go the same route we always have and this plan will definitely throw them off their guard. They'll be unprepared, which is all the more reason to go through with it."

Allister nodded along with his general, that knowing smirk lingering on his chapped lips.

Francis sensed de Richemont's stare on him. "What about you, Sieur France? Like you said, you only have one arm."

"I'll manage," he muttered, not sparing him a glance over the shoulder, "just like how I always have."

Their mouths were sewn shut for a short while, the realization that they'd have to literally throw themselves into the pit of bloodshed in order to save the innocent. Funny how that worked. Jeanne's hand (which was still loosely wrapped around his own) had squeezed his fingers; he peeked down at her.

Through the shiny metal visor and the fat beads of sweat already rolling down her temple, he saw something flicker across those bright hazel eyes. The backfin of a dolphin in the lapping ocean. The single dewdrop in a patch of blue gentians. The shimmer of regained confidence in a land of hope.

He smiled back when the corners of her lips tilted upwards. _You've got this, _he said without actually saying anything. _It's like you said, God is on our side. _

The distant booming of canon-fire and the agonizing moans of the mortally wounded man was nothing compared to the utter chaos stretched out before them.

Smoke swallowed up the early May sky, coating the lovely blue and pearly white with a fresh shade of hell. The wavy grass covering the field was littered with bodies and stained with blood—there were more dead Frenchmen and Scots than there were English, which, unfortunately, didn't surprise them. Francis could hear the rapid footfalls of anxious soldiers around him, impatient shouting and restless neighing of the worn-out horses, the clanking of their iron armor with each move they made. But the one sound that ripped apart his spine with violent shudders was the quick buzzing of an arrow and then the screaming of some unlucky bastard.

Up ahead was the stone fortress of Saint Loup. The English had set up large stakes all around the perimeter like giant wooden teeth or long dirty fingernails, making it extremely difficult to storm into the city while trying to fight off flying arrows and clashing swords. They would have to somehow sprint across the field—all the while dodging arrows, leaping over their dead comrades, and trying not to trip in their own armor, constantly weighing them down as if they lived underwater—wiggle pass their defenses, set up and climb ladders to scale the high walls of the city, and then defeat the enemy by either offering complete surrender or complete slaughter.

_This is impossible, _Francis frowned as he observed his surroundings, shield gripped firmly in his iron hand. His heartbeat picked up speed and his mouth went dry as if a wad of linen were shoved down his throat. The stench of blood and fire was strong now, making his nostrils scrunch up.

_Orléans has been under siege since October; England's most likely here. He has the high ground. He has all the best soldiers with him and he knows exactly what he's doing. He's so strong, so powerful and intimidating. I know what I said, but… _

He glanced over his shoulder. At the corner of the trees, where the woods met the Loire river, he spotted little Jeanne on her knees with her hands clasped, her helmet placed on the ground in front of her knees. Allister, la Hire, the Bastard, Stewart, and de Richemont were darting back and forth like fleas in a filthy stable, getting their soldiers in line and prepared for what laid beyond the safety of the trees, but she didn't let all the commotion distract her. She hardly moved; she was entirely dedicated to her silent conversation with God.

_Someone's going to hurt her. I have to protect her at all costs. _He gritted his teeth and looked back at Saint Loup. _At all costs, England, you little devil. _

He heard steady footfalls hurrying toward the boulder he was crouched behind. "We're ready to move out," came Allister's low, scratchy voice (he said this in his native Scottish Gaelic).

Francis's gaze shifted towards him—he was kneeling beside him, eyes squinting as he peered into the distance. He was fumbling with his armor, busy trying to stuff small knives under his breastplate and gauntlets (Francis had no idea how he would be able to whip them out of such a small space in a short amount of time). He then put on his helmet; his curly red hair disappeared behind his shield of iron. His vibrant green eyes turned to him and Francis saw his yellowed teeth stretch back from beneath his fuzzy beard.

"I can't wait to see that little firecracker slap Arthur dead across the face," he snickered. "In fact, I'll pay whatever's in my satchel just to see that shit."

Francis grinned but it slowly melted back into a frown. His fingers squeezed the straps on his shield and he asked in Gaelic, "Do you really think she'll be able to reach him?"

Allister quirked an eyebrow at him. "With that attitude, it'd be hard not to. Why are you asking me that? Are you doubtful despite all that shit you said earlier?" He drummed his chapped lips together and shook his head. "What's on your mind, you indecisive, depressed prick?"

Francis swallowed a groan, turning away slightly. "It's nothing. Forget I said anything. Let's go—"

Francis felt a hard shove on his lower back with the strength of a skilled barbarian. In fact, it was so rough that it sent him falling face-first onto the soft earth below, revealing his hiding-spot for all to see. He scrambled backwards until his body was safely tucked back in the boulder's long shadow; he then whirled on Allister.

"What the hell, Allister?" he hissed, curling into a ball of security.

He merely blinked—it was slow and emotionless like how a cat woke up after a long nap, displeased with the reality it woke up to. "Seriously? You're giving _me _that attitude? You sound just like my brother."

"What? I'm—"

Allister batted at his mouth, trying to shut him up. Those metal knuckles scraped against his exposed gums and he felt a sharp stinging pain erupt from the spot. He also felt droplets of blood beginning to swell near his teeth, but Allister's hand clamped down on the lower half of his face, making sure to stretch out the pain and humiliation for as long as he could.

Francis wiggled like a worm under his grasp, though he knew it was useless. His own soldiers could beat his ass, so going against another personification was just another way of asking to be murdered in the most extravagant way possible.

"Quit acting like such a little shit," Allister growled, green eyes twitching in annoyance. "Look, I think of you as my brother and I care what happens to you, but, just like with my actual brother, I think you also deserve what's coming to you. So, you better pull your head out of your ass and go and protect that little girl; I have no care for what you have to say about it. If she dies, the blood will be on your hands and maybe then will you be considered to be the sorriest excuse of a country I've ever fucking seen."

He then shoved him to the side, got up, and marched back to the standing army at bay. Francis, frozen with shock, stared after him. Jeanne was up on her feet and moving around with the sudden boost of confidence from the Lord above. She walked up to Allister and asked him something, and he responded with a rough shake of her hair like he was petting a dog. She frowned and combed her choppy bangs with her fingers. Her gaze then landed on Francis and he sensed the frozen shock melt from his bones.

Before she could do anything stupid like run to him or ask what was wrong, he pushed his tongue against the blotch of blood swelling near his tooth, letting the familiar taste of metal settle over his taste-buds. With the combination of bloodshed and love (a deadly combination indeed) pulsing through his veins, he took a deep, shaky breath and sent a message to that same God Jeanne was kneeling to earlier.

_Help me save her. _

It was the first time he had spoken to Him in several years. He didn't feel any different nor heard any response. He wasn't sure what he expected—something, at least, so that he wasn't left there alone with his own thoughts, wondering if he wasting his time or not.

Nevertheless, he persisted. He straightened his wobbly knees and got on his aching feet. With his shield still grasped firmly in his one hand and his brain boiling over in protectiveness and revenge, he lumbered toward Jeanne and the rest of the warriors.

"Is everything alright?" Jeanne asked him. She was looking at him with that concerned mother expression—wide eyes, tight lips, stiff shoulders. She balanced her shiny helmet on her hip and held out his soiled one.

He plastered on another smile as he lowered his head to her eye-level. "I will be, just like you said."

Her expression didn't falter; she wasn't buying it. But they both knew there wasn't enough time to bicker now. They had a promise to keep.

She sighed and placed her helmet upon her head like how the Greek goddess Athena wore hers. She then put Francis's helmet on his head for him, tugging on it to make sure it fit and flipping down the visor. He straightened back up as she wiggled on her own helmet. He watched her through the tiny slits in his visor. She held a shield that was almost as big as her in her left hand and her longsword confidently gripped in her right. She adjusted her helmet, crossed herself, and then bounced on her heels, rolling her shoulders back in preparation for what laid beyond the trees.

The littlest knight peered up at him and gave him a slight nod. "God will protect us," he heard her say, muffled some behind that iron mouthpiece.

_No_, he wanted to say_,_ _I will protect you_. But instead, he nodded back, glad that she couldn't see the pained expression on his face.

They joined the veterans (Allister, de Richemont, la Hire, the Bastard, Stewart) and the new blood (Jean, Pierre, Louis, Noël, Edmond). Francis and the generals looked onwards with slumped shoulders or shaking heads while Jeanne and the soldiers encouraged themselves by stiffening their spines or slapping a hand on someone's back. Edmond stuck close to Jeanne, gripping her standard in his trembling hands. Stewart jerked his hairy chin at Allister before screwing on his helmet. Allister then shot a hand into the air and yelled in his native language, "Ready your positions!"

Iron clanked together in unison from the hundreds of plated armor knights behind them all. Swords were drawn, sending a loud screeching cry into the heavens. Francis heard Jeanne sniff beside him.

Allister's head turned to the left. He ordered in a quieter yet all the more authoritative, "Play _Hey Tuttie Tatie_."[3]

Tucked off to the side were five Scots, dressed in heavy breastplates and red plaid skirts. They had with them instruments—fiddles, lutes, bagpipes, drums—and they began plucking away at their strings or blowing into their horns. A man with long brunet hair tied in a braid playing the lute started singing in a low, throaty voice: "Landlady, count the lawin'. The day is near the dawin'. Ye're a' blind drunk, boys, and I'm but jolly fou."

The band then joined in on the lyrics. Allister, Stewart, and the rest of the Scottish Guard moved to the steady beat of the song, beating their swords against their shields or swaying with the melody. They sung "hey tuttie tatie" over and over again, and the sound reverberating like the deep rumblings of a cave. Even some Frenchmen merged into the growing enthusiasm, stomping their feet or shouting out the only lyric they knew.

The Scottish were easily motivated, Francis knew, but his own people were a bit more suspicious and would much rather be drunk on wine than sing about it.

He sensed Allister's eyes on him and could practically see that infamous little smirk of his behind his helmet. "March forward!" came his gruff voice, holding out his sword in front of him.

Slowly, they all took a step. Then two, three, four. And then they all were lumbering out of the woods, down the hill, and toward the city of Orléans.

Still chanting "Hey Tuttie Tatie" at the top of their lungs, everyone tried hyping themselves up some more. Flags stabbed at the air (including Jeanne's personally-made standard; Edmond let out an angry cry each time he thrusted it upwards). Incoherent shouts came from somewhere near the back. Their stomping became louder—everything did. They picked up the voices they left behind and threw them with such velocity that they flew with the speed and strength of a hundred cannons.

As they drew closer, Francis could vaguely make out tiny silhouettes around the city's borders. Few scurried to get a better look at the impending army heading their way before disappearing deeper into the shadows. Moments later, more black spots emerged, positioning themselves atop buildings, around the fortress, behind their defenses. They stood there, waiting.

Francis stole a glance at Jeanne. She was marching with daggered knees and pumping calves. She held her shield in front of her torso and gripped her God-given sword in her right hand, the tip aimed at the sky. Her shiny iron head never adverted from the target up ahead; none would guess that only a couple hours ago she was frozen in place and crying to herself.

Here she was, the Jeanne d'Arc that demanded to be taken to the dauphin and shoved anyone who dare get in her way. The same one who relentlessly argued with France's greatest generals and threw a javelin as well as an Englishman can pluck a bowstring. She was ready, and she meant it.

He allowed himself a smile and, as a consequence, the man beside her fell.

It was an amazing shot, considering how far away they were, and Francis knew of only one man who could be responsible for it. The arrow pierced through his right armpit, one of the few openings in their armor, and he saw little black dots explode from the impact. Jeanne flinched when her fellow soldier cried out (more so in surprise rather than pain) and stumbled to the ground. One man behind him kneeled and grabbed at the wooden arrow, but the two of them were quickly swallowed up by the sharp silver strides of their companions around them.

Even though Francis couldn't see her expression, he knew she was panicking. Jeanne glanced back several times with the same jerky movements as a baby bird searching for its mother. Her clasp around her sword wavered some, fear taking its toll once again, but Allister's next demand reluctantly kept her from dropping her things and hurrying toward the injured man.

"Steady, now! Don't let the enemy take your souls!"

Jeanne's fist tightened and her head snapped back to the caged city she was supposed to free.

Two more arrows flew. One skidded across the ground in front of them and then knocked against the foot of a soldier while the other broke off against Noël's shield, the sound like the snapping of a twig. Noël jerked back, as did Pierre next to him, yet the short, freckled teen stared back and started to growl "Motherfu—" when a strangled gasp interrupted him.

The singing Scot, the one with the single braid, staggered and dropped his lute. He soon fell with it, slumping against the bagpipe player. His bandmember screamed as his neck leaked out blood through the arrow lodged in his Adam's apple.

Allister seemed to have forgotten to "keep steady" because Francis could sense the boiling anger rolling off of him in giant waves. He shook his longsword in the air and blurted in his native raging Gaelic, "Attack!"

He sprinted forward and, with a battle cry that could make the mountains quake and the sea part, everyone followed suit. It probably had to do with her right next to him, but Francis believed Jeanne to be the loudest of them all. Her armor clanked and her footfalls were heavy and her screams were full of fiery courage like he never heard the sound before. Her short legs were keeping up with them well and her unbreakable aura was contagious. Brothers, friends, strangers, colleagues, and even her not-so-secret admirer raised their weapons and their voices higher than they ever thought possible. All the while, arrows rained down from above and, in the receding distance, English soldiers began storming after them, meeting them halfway across the battlefield.

Francis clutched his shield tightly, ignoring the pain in his body and soul. _This ends today. _

Within moments, the age-long enemies clashed once again. Powerful screams turned into painful grunts. Flags of honor morphed into weapons, striking down anyone who dared to oppose them. It rapidly became a bloodbath, and the terror started all over again.

La Hire was the most brutal in his killings. He tore apart men with his bare hands and he used his sword, shield, and surroundings to the best of his ability. Francis caught him beheading two soldiers in one swift movement before throwing another to the ground and beat him with the edge of his shield until the poor bastard's helmet was dented inwards and dark blood oozed out from the openings of his visor.

Allister, Stewart, and the rest of the Scottish Guard were loud yet all the more courageous in their attacks. They never hesitated and didn't hold back anything; the Scots were known for their strength and bravery, after all. Noël, Jean, Pierre, and Louis were easily motivated by their allies and joined wholeheartedly in the fight. De Richemont, positioned nicely atop his horse, trampled over any Englishman within reach while the Bastard waved his longsword at those who attempted to cut down the general or his stallion.

The English fought back hard, however, despite being caught by surprise. More and more soldiers filed into the battlefield; they cursed as they unleashed their weapons, raising hell once again. The archers never failed to run out of arrows, it seemed—just like nightmares, they pierced their souls at the mere sight of them, pouring from the blue sky, vibrating their senses. Sometimes they missed, sometimes they broke, but, more often than not, they hit their target.

Francis knocked his opponents out of the way with his shield as he tried looking for an escape from this swarm of armored wasps. His gaze zoomed in on Jeanne behind him. The only way he knew for sure that the soldier beside him was indeed Jeanne and not some other short, inexperienced fighter was the panted grunts she made whenever she was angry and the protective steps she took to push back anyone who got too close to him.

She too was whipping her head around, trying to peer through the small gaps between red iron and black hearts. Her stare locked with his for a brief moment before Francis noticed a darkened figure looming behind her like some great terrifying shadow, raising a broadsword high above his head.

Heart-stopping terror squeezed his insides so tightly that he feared they'd all pop, turning him into a puddle of blood and shattered bones. He lunged toward her and raised up his shield; Jeanne stumbled into his chest like a colt learning how to walk. The shield caught the attack just in time, but Francis didn't expect the sudden heavy weight that came with it. Luckily, he took the impact well and tossed it to the side. There, on the muddy ground, laid the reason for the extra weight: the darkened figure now showed himself in broad daylight, gripping his neck as blood seeped between his fingers.

The visor on his helmet had been flipped open and Francis saw his eyes bulge out of their sockets and heard him gurgle through the gallons of blood he was coughing up. He then saw the reflective blade of a longsword dive into the Englishman's face—it silenced everything and another fountain of gore exploded from his body.

Francis's stare travelled up the weapon protruding from the man's face. Edmond, with one hand still gripping Jeanne's standard, wiggled the sword out of the bloody pulp. He looked at Francis and Jeanne, and straightened his spine in pride.

"Did you see that? I destroyed—"

"Look out!" Jeanne cried just as Francis sprang forward to strike down the second opponent sneaking up.

He knocked Edmond to the side as he raised his shield once more. It met the English sword with a giant clang, vibrating his arm from the sheer amount of weight brought down on him. Francis shoved him back, but the soldier was quick on his feet and sliced at him before he was too far away. The tip of the blade managed to scrape against his breastplate and tiny golden sparks flew in the air, along with a high-pitched squeal as metal grazed against metal.

Francis stumbled back and Edmond leapt forward with a heroic battle cry. The boy slashed his sword at the air, for this soldier was experienced and knew how to fight. He dodged each attack Edmond threw and ultimately hurled his own; he swiped his leg across the ground, knocking Edmond off his feet.

The standard slipped through his fingers as he landed with a heavy grunt. Francis let go of his shield and twisted around to catch the flag. It bounced once in his grasp and he nearly tripped as he tumbled forward and firmly wrapped his fingers around the middle of the pole, lifting it before the fabric could touch the ground.

The English would certainly take it as a symbolic failure from the French if their patriotic banner fell to the blood-stained ground.

Edmond gazed up in fear as the grim reaper went to collect his soul, but Jeanne once again changed destiny. Using her shield, she shoved all her body weight into his side. He wobbled off of Edmond yet was unhesitating in swinging his fist her way. It collided with her nose; her head snapped back at the impact.

Before the Englishman could even think about turning around and aiming his sword at Jeanne, Francis wacked him in the side of the head with the pole. A great echo rang in the air once metal hit metal. The soldier cradled his head in his hands as his mind wailed like a gong. Francis took the opportunity and kicked his shield into himself, and the man tumbled further backward. He smacked him in the head again and down he fell.

Francis, using the bubbling anger in his stomach, rammed his foot into the fallen soldier's face as hard as he could. There was a loud cracking sound and then he was still. He most likely wasn't dead, Francis thought, yet he believed he would get trampled on and eventually someone would come along and snap his neck. So, he left him with his fate.

He whirled around. Edmond was on his feet and reaching for the banner; Jeanne had her visor up and was staring at Francis. A droplet of blood dangled from her right nostril, but it was that look in her eyes that worried him. It was as if she just woke up from a nightmare but hadn't realized it all had been a dream. Painful shock and exhausted fear swirled in those big hurricane orbs, and he couldn't help but to feel guilty. It was like he just stabbed a man in front of a child, robbing them of their innocence.

Luckily Edmond's strong ego pulled them back to the situation at hand. He had lifted Jeanne's standard out of the muddy ground and was holding it with the same motivation as his sword. His gaze was locked onto some unknown spot in the distance, despite all the turmoil happening around them.

"We need to get pass Orléans's walls," he declared as if that hadn't been the plan all along.

Francis was a little thankful for the obvious reminder—it forced his mind to stick with Allister's personal goal for him. He picked up his shield and peered into the blue sky. Heaps of arrows poured from above and he saw swords, flags, and pikes stab at the scattered clouds. English soldiers rounded their defenses, aiding their comrades in this very unexpected ambush.

He then glanced over his shoulder toward the trees. He could vaguely make out the long iron cannons pushing through the clearing; small silhouettes scurried around as they stuffed cannonballs down the shoot and aimed them toward Saint Loup down below. This too was Jeanne's idea—when she suggested that they shoot at the English-occupied towers, the Bastard and those two captains they encountered earlier argued that they'd be hitting their own city, destroying their own resources.

"Are you mad?" they inquired bewilderedly.

"Perhaps a little," she had admitted, "yet madness might just win us the war, for we haven't tried it yet."[4]

Begrudgingly, they let her take control and dragged out the cannons.

Francis's eyes quickly scanned the area again. Still he could not spot him anywhere within the chaos.

He turned back to Edmond and Jeanne, but before he could say or do anything, Jeanne had grabbed his elbow and began tugging forward. "We can't just stand here!" she shouted. "Advance! Scale the walls! Don't stop until every last one of them has either surrendered or is dead!"

And they flew with the wind, darting between the gaps of bloodshed like flies on a rotting corpse. Edmond kept up with them well—he lifted the banner high in the air while his sword whipped at the turned backs of Englishmen, so that their French or Scottish rival had a chance at finishing off their now distracted selves. Jeanne hardly casted any glances behind her; she just kept running. Francis tried keeping his gaze locked on Jeanne, but there was so much spinning around them that he feared she should slip through his fingers like grains of sand. He bashed his shield against anything that might've even thought about touching Jeanne.

They continued to worm their way through the mass of war and only stopped for a moment when they heard a distant boom and then a much louder explosion.

Their heads turned just in time for them to see a tower of Saint Loup shatter. Stone and iron bits flew into the air with an incredible crash, loud enough to make one temporarily deaf. The tower caved in where the cannonball struck and it groaned under its shifting weight. Any English soldier who had stood in the tower was now either dashing down the stairs or laying crippled within the debris.

A mere instant passed before another cannonball was fired. It was just as loud and destructive as the first one. Whatever poor soul was left stranded in the tower had surely blown apart along with the structure (Francis tried to not think about the innocent citizens that might've been on the other side). Saint Loup drowned in utter turmoil as one of its towers crumbled to the ground; the very air was filled with smoke, blood, and screams.

Francis, Jeanne, and Edmond paused only for a moment, yet a moment was all they needed.

The first thing Francis saw was Edmond being thrown to the ground and the tip of a longsword come into his field of vision. He snapped toward the weapon and, as a consequence, an iron fist hit him square in the jaw. The punch was so sudden and powerful that, for a second, he thought la Hire had somehow mistaken him for the enemy. He sluggishly faced his opponent (who was nothing like the gigantic, mighty general he thought he was) and was once again struck across the face (this time with the blunt end of his sword at his open gash on the side of his face).

He felt the lightning burst at his mouth, warm fluids splattering against the inside of his helmet. He lost his footing and stumbled back. He ended up toppling over Jeanne, but she was both quick and strong enough to catch him in her arms. When his shield slipped through his fingers once again, Jeanne whipped out her own, positioning it right in front of Francis while pointing her longsword at the perpetrator.

"In the name of Jesus Christ, surr—!"

Jeanne's command was cut off by the sound of painful screaming. Her head whirled toward Edmond on the ground, and Francis knew that gesture would be the death of her. He dropped all his weight as fast as his heart pounded in his chest. Jeanne fell to the floor with him, and narrowly missed the upcoming stab the soldier threw at her.

Francis hardly had time to think; he blindly grabbed whatever was closest to him, which ended up being Jeanne's sword. He ripped it out of her hold and slashed it through the air. The blade staggered and, when he glanced up, had tore through the stomach of the man looming over them.

He recognized the frozen shock of death slowly take hold of this body and spotted several other bodies of silver armor hurry toward them. As fear seeped into his veins and rattled his bones, Francis did the only thing he could do: protect Jeanne.

He felt the sword being tugged out of his grasp (no doubt Jeanne) and he let her have it. He then replaced it with his dropped shield, hovered over Jeanne's tiny body, and then he waited for the blood to spill.

The body of the man he'd just slain slumped upon Francis; his torso laid flat on his shield and his head and limbs draped over the sides like a starfish. He could see the man's glazed blue eyes through the slits of his visor and feel his insides leak out around him. He heard a faded grunt escape his lips once his own comrades literally stabbed him in the back in order to get to Francis and Jeanne.

Their legs, entangled together, curled underneath Francis's shield and Jeanne held onto him for dear life, laying still until the shield stopped shuddering and the footfalls stopped pounding. The familiar shouts of Allister and what sounded like Jean and the Bastard calmed Francis down enough for him to focus on the little commander beneath him.

She had her sword gripped tightly in both hands, its reflective blade tucked between them. He could hear her quick, panicked breaths and see fat beads of sweat roll across her brow. Her wide sea-green eyes darted around the enclosed space until they landed on him. It was like peering into an abyss of black fear and then seeing a few sparks of bright courage spray from somewhere within, lighting up like the birth of a fire in the dead of night.

The sounds of battle kept raging overhead. The dead body on his back was starting to weigh him down. He knew Allister was still there because his hardy laugh could be heard with each strike he thrust, and he knew it wouldn't be long before they'd be given the opportunity to run for it.

"When I say 'go', you get up and run to the right," Francis told her. "You run until there's nobody around you. We're almost to the wall; remember what I told you during training."

"What about Edmond? What about you?" He felt her hot breath push against his skin and the feeling comforted him a little.

"Sieur Scotland and your brothers are here. He'll make it out, I promise." He smiled, despite the blood clotting his teeth and gums. "And I'll be right behind you the entire time."

Her lips formed a thin white line. Hesitation held back the protests simmering on her lips like bubbles in a pot of boiling water. She didn't like the idea, he could tell, but there wasn't any time to think up another one. A desperate exhale escaped her. "Okay."

He nodded once and then waited.

He peeked underneath the rim of the shield. Bodies were spewed all around, feet stomping, blood flowing. He caught the sight of Jeanne's banner on the ground with Edmond hovering over it. He was scrambling for his sword a couple meters away while Jean, the Bastard, and Allister fought for his life overhead. Allister, dubbed "Achilles" among the French and Scottish troops, was obviously quicker and stronger than the d'Arc brothers, and he displayed this in the snarky hoot he let out every time his blade clashed against another's.

Francis studied Allister's movements intently. He noticed how each Englishman seemed smaller, further away than before. Tiny as it was, a clearing had been made, and Jeanne and Francis sat in the middle of it.

"Alright, get ready," he told Jeanne in a breathy tone.

He sensed her shift underneath him; his gaze never tore from the increasing rim of the circle. Allister assisted the Bastard by ramming his shoulder into his opponent's side, and then slit the neck of a soldier who had gotten too close to Edmond.

Once the man collapsed, Francis uttered "Now!" as quietly and effectively as he could, throwing the dead weight off his back with a grunt. Jeanne scrambled to her feet, sprinting to the right, doing what Francis had instructed her to do. He flew after her like the wind and didn't dare look behind them.

He learned that same lesson too many times.

With his blood-stained shield raised and his legs pumping on adrenaline, he followed Jeanne through the tight tunnels of tainted iron and hunched bodies. They ducked and swerved and jumped and dodged and shoved. It was like swimming in a hurricane and it was only a matter of time before they'd be washed away with the tide.

The two eventually, thankfully burst out into a small clearing. It wasn't completely cleared obviously (several soldiers were still engaged in battle), but it was no longer cramped, and the raining arrows were easier to spot). Jeanne, Francis noticed, began slowing down to an unsteady halt, but he urged her onward.

"Don't stop!" he shouted. "Keep going! Don't look back!"

Jeanne picked up speed once again, stumbling a bit in the process. She kept her gaze straight ahead and when Francis told her to steer towards the city's walls, her feet pounded in that direction.

He peered up at one of the enclosed entrances of Orléans. Wooden stakes as thick and high as full-grown yew trees guarded the place like timbered ravens, announcing their impending doom to all who approached. These were useful when stopping a large crowd, but one or two soldiers could squeeze by quite easily.

He spotted the heads of the archers subtly poke out from behind the stone high above. Like hawks they searched for their prey, extending their claws out and snatching them up before whisking them away to the place of pain and a slow death. They'd have to hurry if they should escape their clutches. But what would they do once they reached the—

Francis's thoughts snapped out of existence as a cannonball struck him, except this cannonball was in the shape of a man.

This man's strength did matched that of a cannonball, however, and Francis could feel one of his ribs crack as he tumbled through the air and skidded across the floor. The strap on his shield tore with a loud rip and was flung from his grasp, his only form of protection now gone. His tumbling came to a stop and the pain began to sink into his chest like the low tide of a river, yet he lifted himself to his knees and peered up at him.

Arthur Kirkland stood before him, the fire burning in his eyes. He wore a bright, silver breastplate, stained with dirt and blood, but his limbs were free of any heavy armor—instead dark leather wrapped around his arms and he wore dark trousers with knee-high boots. A bow and pack of arrows were slung over his shoulder yet he wielded a simple dagger. He glared down at him—his green eyes flashed in fury (as they always did) and his thin lips were drawn back in a wolfish snarl. His overall aura pulsed with an ancient anger as if it was just rudely awoken after a century-old nap.

He raised the dagger and hissed through his teeth in his native English, "Why won't you just fucking die already?"

Francis dodged out of the way just in time; he could hear the sharp rush of wind as the blade barely missed his ear. He then went to grab the knife, but Arthur's grip was unbelievably strong—it was like trying to wrestle with a bear or la Hire: hands thick as clay, muscles tough as brick. With such easement and swiftness, Arthur rammed his free fist into Francis's ribs and yanked back his wrist from his grasp. A bolt of lightning struck Francis's chest and he cried out in pain, but he was cut off by another blow to the jaw, causing another spout of blood to burst from his mouth and his helmet to fly off his head.

He rolled out of the way and staggered to his feet. Arthur strolled toward him in a dangerously calm manner; it shook Francis to his core, seeing his impending doom saunter in his direction in such a cold, expressionless state. Without breaking their intense stare-down, he unsheathed his broadsword and gripped it firmly.

"I could ask you the same thing," Francis replied in English, curving his bleeding lips into a sly grin so Arthur couldn't see how scared he was. "It would make my life much more pleasant if you dropped dead now."

"You're incredibly close to doing just that," Arthur growled back. He positioned himself in a fighting stance, fists raised, knees bent. The light gleamed in the blade of his dagger; its cruel sharpness almost matched the one in his stare. "I _insist _you die first."

Arthur pounced and Francis braced for impact.

He slashed his sword in front of him once Arthur ran up; he easily avoided the hit and tried slitting Francis's stomach, at the small space between his breastplate and fauld. He hopped back; the tip of the blade scratched his lower breastplate, leaving behind a thin, white line. Once again, he attempted to strike Arthur, this time with the butt of his handle, but, like a sneaky wasp, Arthur ducked and flew to his side where he shoved the dagger into the open hole in his armor, where his right arm would've gone through.

The fiery pain ripped through the old stitches in his stump of an arm as the same old blood flowed down his side, soaking his clothes and splashing onto the trampled grass below. He stumbled, thus giving Arthur a chance to attack again, which he greedily took. Francis didn't see him, yet he felt the all-too-familiar stab in the back as the dagger sunk into his flesh, this time in his elbow.

He tried to keep from screaming aloud (he refused to give him the satisfaction), but the incredibly sharp pain blazing through his veins forced a strangled grunt to surface to his throat. He fell onto one knee, panting heavily. His eyes trailed after Arthur's boots circle him like a vulture impatiently waiting for his prey to die so he could devour his ravaged body.

"Honestly, why do you keep trying?" Arthur prompted, whipping the blood off his dagger (Francis felt some splatter across his cheekbone). "We both know how this is going to end, so why don't you just give up now and put a stop to your own suffering? It's starting to get really fucking annoying."

Francis's response was an angry scream and a vain attempt to slash his sword through Arthur's legs. But he was quick to dodge the attack, drive a thick fist into his nose, and then kick his weapon out of his grasp. The broadsword skidded across the ground, knocking against the still body of a French soldier nearby.

Francis put his hand on the ground in front of him, steadying himself. His fingers burned and the strong smell of iron leaked from his nostrils. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Arthur crouch down before him. His body was so small, it always has been. Yet he packed a punch that sent him wheeling—he didn't get his strength from his humanoid figure, but rather from his people, the success of his nation.

He didn't raise his gaze as Arthur continued to taunt him: "I'll admit that I didn't expect you to come at me head-on; must have been Scotland's decision. Bravo for getting this far, but alas, if you refuse to surrender, then I have no choice but to slice your neck open." He paused and Francis sensed his eyes on him, probably observing the crisscrossed scars upon his neck.

"Again," he added in the same monotone voice.

Francis debated on whether or not to respond, and then settled on spitting a mouthful of blood in his face. He grinned, watching the red run down his cheek, waiting for him to explode in fury or recoil in disgust. Some reaction that would make this next death worthwhile. But Arthur simply pursed his lips, wiped the mess off his cheek, and then, without a word, plunge his dagger back into the knob of undone stitches and leaky fluids, twisting the blade to make sure it was felt.

Francis couldn't hold back the agonizing cry that ripped his throat in two. Even more gore spurted from the old wound and he could feel it exiting his body in large amounts. Once Arthur jerked out his knife, Francis clutched at his shoulder and curled into himself and let out more smothered moans into the bloodied grass.

As he wheezed, he saw Arthur stand on his feet and ready himself into a fighting stance. Francis wasn't sure what would come first: a kick to the face, a shove to the ground, a knife to the head. Either way, he just hoped that it would end soon.

But before anything of the sort could happen, he heard a scream, a mighty yet petrified scream. And then he felt a splash of blood upon his head and saw something pale land beside his knee. He looked down; it was a hand and, clutched within its fingers, a tainted dagger.

His eyes flew upwards and noticed the dark undercut and red birthmark of Jeanne d'Arc standing over him. She had her shield in front of her and her sword's tip aimed at Arthur. Francis couldn't see her expression, but he did see Arthur's completely dumbfounded one as he gripped at his now missing limb.

He had yelled mainly in surprise but Francis heard the pain as well. The blood spouted from his open wrist like rain from a gutter. He stumbled back with wide eyes and bared teeth. He eyed Jeanne as if she were some mythical creature made in the flesh (Francis wasn't even certain if he realized she was a girl).

Jeanne stood her ground under Arthur's stare. Her grip tightened on her sword and a low yet fierce growl rumble from deep within her.

"Éloigne-toi de lui ou je te nourrirai aux cochons ."[5]

Arthur hardly flinched yet Francis stiffened at the threat. He'd never heard such violent words come from Jeanne's tongue. He's heard petty complaints and overdramatic statements, but never something so damning. For a moment, he actually believed that she would do it.

Francis watched Arthur contemplate everything that just happened. He saw flabbergasted eyes and baffled lips, emotions he hadn't seen on him in years (which interested him at the very least). He seemed to have completely forgotten about his chopped-off right hand. He stared and stared like this until, very slowly, his facial features hardened back into the angry fire that consumed his heart.

This took nearly all of Francis's attention, and it would end up costing Jeanne.

Because of this, he did not hear the one particular shout above all the rest—the demand, the cry for openness so a shot could be fired. Arthur swiftly ducked his head and then Jeanne fell backward. Francis only became aware of what happened once he saw the wooden arrow sticking out of Jeanne's shoulder and heard her painful screams.

Snapping back to the heat of the moment, Francis let the total shock and hostility control his next set of actions. He straightened one of his legs and whirled it under Arthur's feet, knocking him to the ground. Arthur landed with a hard _thud, _yet he wasted no time in reaching for his dagger, still held in his amputated hand's fingers. Francis then kicked him twice in the face and, once he backed down, grabbed Jeanne and then ran for the hills, his wild attempt at outrunning some skilled Englishman with a bow and arrow.

Completely disregarding his own wounds, Francis tightened his weakening grip on Jeanne (he had his arm wrapped around her waist and had her side pressed against his own as if he were carrying a barrel or a sack of flour). The fading shouts of Arthur Kirkland giving out orders to his men sent familiar shivers down his spine which only pushed him further. Although everything ached and bleed as his body moved, and Jeanne wiggling around in his grasp definitely wasn't taming the pain either.

"Go back!" she hollered. "Don't surrender! Never surrender!"

"You don't know who that was," he barked at her. "And we can't go back. You…"

_You got shot in the shoulder with an arrow. Just like you said you would. _

"I don't care who it is! Don't run away!"

She squirmed like a maggot in his grasp, though he knew she wasn't putting all her strength into it. He risked a glance down at her. Through her tousled locks, he saw the dreadful arrow sticking out of the crack between her breastplate and pauldron. One of her hands was enveloped around the arrow, where the wood entered the flesh, while the other feebly pushed at his wrist.

"Don't pull it out!" he ordered her. "You could make it worse."

His gaze flashed back toward the hills, where surely some French or Scottish physician was running around, aiding the fallen. As he continued sprinting through the carnage as if he were running for his own life, Jeanne's struggles slowed to a stop and she gave in to the pain, crying softly to herself.

His head felt lighter and his breathing became haggard. His heartbeat hammered against his chest with the same ferocious pace his eyes scanned the horizon. An arrow whizzed by his head and he jolted in another wave of fear.

"Shit, shit, shit," he muttered under his breath. "Where the fuck are they?"

Blood soaked his entire right side, but he didn't let the awareness sink in too deeply. He never stopped running; his panicked stare darted to and fro, searching for someone who wasn't already dead or engaged in combat.

_If I can't find anyone soon, _he thought to himself, _I'll have to take out the arrow myself. But I don't have any medical supplies on me; she might bleed out or get an infection if I'm not careful. Who says I'm not making it worse by simply running with her dangling at my side? But I need to get out of range, so I won't get shot in the process. _

Jeanne's crying grew louder, the discomfort and frustration intensifying. Tears lined his vision as the hopelessness of the situation weighed him down.

_If only I had paid closer attention or had actually done something, then this wouldn't have happened! She would've been wrong for once and I wouldn't have to half-drag her body across a warzone. _

"Jeanne? Is that Jeanne?"

Francis had just stepped over an assumed dead body when a relieving, familiar voice rang throughout the hills. He glanced to his right and saw two soldiers hurrying his way. He recognized the mountainous structure and heavy movements of la Hire barreling forward, but Francis only realized who the second soldier was when he yanked his helmet off and tossed it to the side as if it were nothing more than an empty sack of potatoes.

It was Pierre, Jeanne's second older brother who shared the same hazel eyes as she. Right now, they were as wide and watery as rain puddles.

"Jeanne?" he repeated as his arms spread out toward his sister, dropping his sword subconsciously.

"Where's the nearest physician?" Francis demanded. He didn't make any movement toward them, but instead, strengthened his loosening hold on Jeanne.

"Pierre!" Jeanne choked out her brother's name and he noticed her tiny hand poke out from the corner of Francis's vision, reaching for her sibling.

"Oh my g—what happened?" He tried knotting their fingers together, but Francis, with blood dripping from his mouth and sweat rolling off of him in buckets, got in his face and growled again, "I said where's the nearest physician?"

Pierre flinched, blinking back his swelling tears before yelling back, "I don't know!"

"I saw a man bandaging up another just beyond the river a moment ago," la Hire spoke up, looming over them.

Francis peered up at him and he could see his eyes behind his visor. La Hire wasn't scared too easily—he witnessed the effects of Azincourt and other traumatizing battles—but, for a split second, he thought he spotted true, genuine concern blazing within those dark orbs. Yet Francis wasn't certain who he was concerned for.

"I'll take her," la Hire insisted as he carefully wrestled Jeanne out of Francis's grasp (his unspoken inquiry had now been answered). "You look like you need a physician yourself, Sieur France."

Jeanne whimpered some more, the arrow shifting around in her flesh. As though the sound were a rope that tied them together, Francis felt himself being tugged forward, gazing down at her pained expression through blurry eyes.

"Don't hurt her!" he gasped. "You're making it worse!"

La Hire shot him a menacing glare. "I know what I'm doing. Stay the fuck away; you're acting like a madman."

"You're the madman if you think I'm just going to let you take her away with those big, careless tree trunks you call hands. I'm the one assigned to her—"

La Hire barked out a harsh laugh. "Take one good look at yourself and then tell me one good reason why I should hand her over to you. Calm down, you disastrous fuck—"

"Please stop arguing, generals!" Pierre interfered in a trembling tone. "Please, my sister needs help. Let's just take her to the physician by the river and-and I'll help you get there if you'd like, S-Sieur France."

"Don't retreat!" Jeanne spat out, still struggling in la Hire's arms. "Don't let anyone retreat or surrender; if you see someone running away, turn them back around."

"Don't you worry, Commander," la Hire reassured her. "Someone killed that bagpipe player; I'm not done until that little bastard is dead."

Without another word, la Hire rushed up the hill, leaving Francis and Pierre in the dust. Francis gritted his teeth and began storming after them, but a sudden wave of dizziness hit him like a bolt of lightning. His legs became a liquid and he collapsed into a puddle on the ground. He cursed into the mud, sinking his fingers into it as though it were Arthur Kirkland's eye sockets.

He heard the clanking of Pierre's armor and then felt his hands grab at his body, pulling his arm around his neck and holding onto his waist. Francis winced at the fresh pulse of agony coursing through his veins, but the urge to protect Jeanne at all costs overpowered the pain. He pushed through it and trudged up the hill.

Pierre's panicked breathing quickened as they dragged themselves upwards. His arms shook and he muttered some prayer under his breath. His dread seem to increase the closer they got to the river (Francis could now make out many silhouettes kneeling by the water). Francis wondered if he might actually pass out from fright, his limbs trembled so.

"Don't panic," he said through hypocritical lips. "That'll only make matters worse. Your sister needs you."

Pierre's eyes—Jeanne's eyes—glanced his way. His physical appearance probably didn't help calm his nerves yet he nodded his head in encouragement. Pierre blinked once, then twice, and then nodded back. His fear wasn't diminished, no doubt, but hopefully he could work with it.

They finally stumbled to the top of the hill, anxious and exhausted. Several bodies crowded the space beside the lapping river—some only had a bandage or two wrapped around their elbows or foreheads while others laid dying in the grass, barely breathing through their severed throats as blood squirted from their mouths like a fountain. Two physicians scrambled around like chickens with their heads cut off. They tried attending to as many patients as they could, yet still some died before they even saw their faces.

Francis heard la Hire's voice boom somewhere off to the right; he squinted over Pierre's shoulder.

"Commander d'Arc has taken an arrow to the shoulder," he declared, "and it is of vital importance that you save her life."

Francis spotted Jeanne's sweaty head poke out from behind la Hire bloodstained, armored bicep. La Hire leaned over a skinny physician Francis didn't notice before. This physician was currently working on a man whose nose resembled that of a smashed grape. He repeatedly switched from pouring white wine over the man's nose to swapping at the ongoing flow of blood with a dampened handkerchief.

The physician glanced up at la Hire, over at Jeanne, back at la Hire, and then down at his current patient. "The injury won't kill her" was his monotoned reply.

La Hire paused before gently setting Jeanne down on her feet. Jeanne slowly and shakingly lowered one knee to the ground, grasping the arrow with both hands, breathing deep and steady breaths.

La Hire then reached down and yanked the physician back. The wine flask bounced to the side—the warm liquid began spilling out and mixing in with the slippery blood and trodden muck. The physician flung himself forward and scooped the flask back up.

"It is your duty to heal the wounded!" la Hire barked. "Now attend to the commander before I plummet you into the ground, little man."

As if to prove his point, a cannon exploded nearby, loud enough to make the ground rumble and the trees tremble.

The slender physician glared up at the infamous general with lightning blue eyes, thread thin eyebrows dragged downward in an irritated V-shape. "I'm busy right now; tell her to get in line." He scooted closer to the no-nose man. "What's a girl doing here anyway?" he added in a low, snarky mutter.

"Sieur France!"

A figure stumbled into Francis's line of sight—it was another physician. He had a face and eyes as round as a cherry, and his hands and forearms were stained in the same color.

"Let me care for your injuries, Sieur France," he pleaded, walking toward him with open arms as though he were an old doll that'd collapse into a pile of dust if the wind blew too hard.

Pierre automatically began shifting Francis's limp body toward the suddenly available physician, but Francis backed away, breaking out of Pierre's grasp.

"I won't be looked at until the commander is treated," he bit harshly.

As the doctor's round face puckered in confusion, another "Sieur France!" burst out. The tiny, blue-eyed physician abandoned la Hire, Jeanne, and the no-nose man, running toward his country with the fear others expected of him.

He opened his mouth but Francis wouldn't allow it: "Cure Commander d'Arc's wounds first."

"D'Arc? But you're—"

Francis reached out and grabbed his collar roughly, yanking him forward so that their noses nearly touched. He watched the man cower in ways la Hire was known for installing in all hearts.

"You'll all be smashed to bits underneath the boot of the English if you don't save her life," he snarled, spittle of blood sprinkling along the doctor's jaw and lips. "I'm not like you humans—my body can heal itself much quicker and can tolerate more damage than yours can. So, you better get that fucking arrow out of her if you wish to see the sunset tomorrow."

With that, Francis shoved him back, knocking him into the other puzzled physician. They both blinked, mute, motionless, until he barked out "Now, cowards!" They recoiled at their country's rare burst of rage, and then scampered toward Jeanne, who was still crouched by the trees with la Hire by her side.

One by one, other soldiers began crowding around Jeanne with their broken bones and open cuts (including the no-nose man). They peered down at her like nuns at a sinner in church while the two physicians examined her bleeding shoulder. Pierre took a couple steps forward, and then spun around and half-carried, half-dragged Francis to the slowly growing herd.

They quickened their pace once Jeanne's screams became louder.

"Out of the way!" Pierre hollered over the murmurs of the small gathering of injured soldiers. He nudged pass them (some let out strangled grunts or painful "hey!" whenever Pierre pushed at the wrong places). Francis followed closely behind. He was taller than Pierre and most of the surrounding soldiers, so he managed to catch la Hire and the two physicians hovering over Jeanne. He saw her wiggle and kick and slap away their hands.

"Get your hands off of me!" Her shouts were urgent yet angry, not the frantic, terrified ones he thought he heard. "Back off! P-Pierre!"

At the mention of his name, Pierre elbowed the last soldier out of the way before tugging on the back collar of the blue-eyed, stick-thin physician (who definitely had his fair share of being tossed around for the day).

"What are you doing?" Pierre snapped, a hideous scowl pulling at his features. "Get off of her!"

The physician batted at his wrists and threw a nastier glare his way. "I'm trying to take the goddamn arrow out! I can't work if you keep on patronizing me!"

"He's trying to remove my armor!" Jeanne countered.

He peered angrily down at her. "I have to in order to access the wound properly. I can't simply pull the arrow out—I might tear something else."

A pulse of dizziness coursed through Francis's temples. Heat shrouded his body like a cloud and his legs felt like pudding, mushy and gooey. Yet despite wanting to collapse in a puddle and letting his heartbeat slow to a stop only to start pumping again the next morning, he steadied himself, regained his composure, and turned toward the crowd behind him.

"Unless you have a missing limb or are seeing the Angel of Death reaching out toward you," he managed in a breathless shout, "go back to your positions. Storm the Saint Loup tower at all costs."

He expected them to protest or hold back their actions, but, to his great relief, they waddled away, tightening the straps on their armor as they went. Whether it was his mauled face or la Hire's intimidating presence behind him that demanded them to obey Francis's command, he didn't care to know. He was just glad he didn't have to raise his voice; his throat was as dry as linen and it throbbed like an aching heart.

He then whirled back to Jeanne. The physicians had moved away some and Pierre was now shielding Jeanne's body with his armored back. His elbows flapped and his arms circled. Francis realized he was undoing her armor.

The physicians mumbled to each other, sometimes bitterly, sometimes matter-of-factly. Pierre kept his sister's breastplate by his hip and inched closer to her, her head between his knees. La Hire merely stood to the side and observed. Jeanne winced as Pierre carefully shifted the sleeve of her shirt around so that they could get a better look at the wound.

It looked worse than what Francis had imagined. The arrowhead itself was tucked in the space between her collarbone and scapula; he could see the ears and neck of the silver head poking out from her flesh. The blood was great, thick as custard. It coated her shirt and sun-kissed skin, her hands and her brother's hands. Francis probably got some on himself, but he didn't bother to glance down. There shouldn't have been that much blood—it must've happened because of him. He grabbed her roughly and ran, her body flopping around like a fish out of water. He let la Hire snatch her away and pry open that tear some more with his big, bouncing steps (that ogre of a man could make the floorboards wheeze and the tables and chairs vibrate every time he strolled into a room). He failed to act sooner when the doctor first refused to help her—perhaps if he'd been quicker, then Jeanne wouldn't have huddled alone by that tree, cradling the blood and pain.

And, the worse part of it all, she had known all along.

Francis couldn't remember much of what exactly happened next. Through his hazy gaze and clogged eardrums, he tried his absolute best to stay afloat, but it was like being trapped underwater: everything was muffled in this slow-motion world. The round-faced, bloody-armed doctor handed a little tool to his partner and then the wooden shaft of the arrow was clipped off. The other physician was preparing a long roll of bandages and groping at his flask. La Hire lowered onto one knee and reached out a hand. Pierre intertwined his red fingers with Jeanne's; his mouth was moving and his eyes were searching.

And poor, little Jeanne. Lying on the filthy grass with five men hovering over her, staring down at her sudden vulnerability while she tried her best to conceal her own panic. She was scared, she was in pain, and, most importantly, she was overflowing with a mighty rage.

Francis sensed yet another rush of fluids exit his body. Shortly after that, his consciousness fell out as well.

* * *

[1] The Franco-Scottish bromance goes way back. They both got together for the common hatred of England (the Auld Alliance in 1295 would confirm this) but they grew as time marched on. France sent significant help during the Scottish Wars of Independence against England, one of the most defining conflicts of the Scottish people. As a result, Scotland was properly recognized as an independent state and, when the Hundred Years War emerged, Scotland would repay the favor. Not only did Scotland continue to send soldiers France's way, but an elite group of Scottish combatants would be formed under the Dauphin Charles's command. He picked out 100 top-notch Scots to protect his father, Charles VI, for he had gone mad and had few allies. This group was appropriately called the Garde Écossaise (Scottish Guard) and would protect the French monarchy until the French Revolution.

[2] It is said that the French lost so many soldiers during the period of the Hundred Years War that, by the time Joan entered the war, France had lost nearly 50% of its male population. That includes dying on the battlefield, disease, and infection.

[3] "Hey Tuttie Taiti" or "Everyone Toot on Your Horn" is a classic Scottish drinking song/march. It was expected that soldiers (or drunk people) would bring out some noise-maker—anything from an actual instrument to pots and pans—to battle in order to intimidate the enemy. This song was made famous in the movie _Braveheart _which is what the Scots play (both in Hollywood and in real life) when Robert the Bruce stormed the English at Bannockburn. There are many different versions of this song and parts have been added to it over the years, but the message is still the same: Scotland rules and everyone else can suck it.

[4] Back in the good ol' days, in war, you had to line up in a single file line and continuously fire at each other until one of you surrendered. This method was practiced for hundreds of years and Joan didn't see the point in just standing there and letting yourself get killed. She demanded that her soldiers get out of hiding and attack head-on; her favorite method of attack was by surprise, totally catching the enemy off guard. She also enjoyed using cannons and did use several of them in the battle of Orleans. Here in the US, in New Orleans, Louisiana (yes, the French named the city with thoughts of Joan's victory in mind), the French have bestowed it upon themselves to gift us with a statue of Joan of Arc surrounded by cannons while lifting her banner in the air back in the 1970s. It shows not only the history of the original Orleans, but also Joan's favorite way of slaying her enemies.

[5] French translation: "Step away from him or I'll feed you to the pigs."


End file.
